The Highwaymen
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: [Sequel to The Way the World Ends]. When one of their own is charged with bombing Quantico, the BAU sets out to catch the real UNSUB. But now they'll have to go outside the bounds of the Bureau-and enlist some old friends (and perhaps some old enemies) in the process.
1. Ground Zero

**Ground Zero**

" _A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead."_ _  
~_ _Graham Greene_ _._

* * *

 _ **September 11, 2001. Potomac High School, Dumfries, Virginia.**_

"The Twin Towers have fallen!"

Seventeen-year-old Benjamin Fuller's head snapped up at the pronouncement, borne by his history teacher, Mr. Simon, who'd burst into first-period Chemistry with such frenzied terror that no one could even imagine he was joking.

Ms. Offerman, the science teacher, froze, hand in mid-air, fingers still curled in an almost beatific gesture. She blinked once. "What?"

"They've—planes, I don't know how—have crashed into the towers!"

The class of high school juniors kept silent, their eyes wide with uncertainty as they watched the two adults, trying to garner clues—what did this mean, how should they act?

"What…what do we do?" Ms. Offerman's voice was still quiet, the small tremolo at the end of her question that only indication of her emotional state—her face was still blankly pale, her hands still suspended, as if she were a marionette that had been hung incorrectly, the strings to her arms still looped over or tangled up, keeping her fixed in place.

Now, Mr. Simon's panic and dismay settled into something deeper—something far more frightening. His voice lowered to meet her tone as he quietly admitted, "I don't know."

What had started as a perfectly ordinary day would continue in a daze of disbelief—yet despite the dream-like, hazy feeling, Benjamin Fuller would remember every minute of it.

It was the day he became a true patriot—a true warrior for his nation, his country, his beloved and beleaguered homeland. He would dedicate his life to defending her from enemies—without and within.

He'd been given a destiny. He'd fulfill it, no matter the cost.

* * *

" _The ending is nearer than you think, and it is already written. All that we have left to choose is the correct moment to begin."_ _  
_ _~Alan Moore_ _._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: And so we begin! Just wanted to take a moment to address a few things. One, which I can't stress enough: if you are going to leave a review that is critical (please understand that is not necessarily a bad thing) or otherwise requires input (i.e. you ask a question), please don't do so as a guest. We are each other's editors on this site—and a vital part of the editing process includes making corrections and asking questions. However, it is equally vital that the writer is allowed to answer those questions and either make the correction or defend/clarify their original position. When you review as a guest, you cut the process off at the knees. As writers, we need the chance to receive AND respond to feedback. Please do not steal that from us. For the most part, guest reviews aren't that big of an issue for me, but when it is a final review on a completed project, there is no way for me to actually respond to you, and I know I'm not the only writer on this site who has experienced this. So I'm asking you to please think of this next time you leave a review on a completed work that would generally require feedback. We give our voices to tell stories for you, please don't silence those voices. Please.**_

 _ **Having said that, I wanted to address a few items that came up in final guest reviews for this piece's prequel.**_

 _ **Let me start all of this by being very clear: I'm not trying to bash anyone or be in anyway negative or aggressive in these responses. I have a very dry sense of humor, and I feel like sometimes it doesn't translate well. But please keep that in mind.**_

 _ **Someone mentioned that having JJ wake up in handcuffs would have been more original—and I have to admit, when I read the suggestion, I was like "whoa, that would have been a total twist!" and even felt a twinge of wishing I HAD done such a thing—but for this particular story and my intention in telling it, such a move would have also been disingenuous. In my opinion, it would have turned the whole story into one of those who-dunnits where the clever detective pulls the proverbial rabbit out of his hat at the end, revealing clues and events that we readers did not get to see—and from my own personal point of view, it's not a technique that I like reading, so I try not to write in it, either.**_

 _ **There was also the term "unoriginal" thrown out there—to which I wholeheartedly agree. But then again, we are writing about a show that already exists, so…technically everything on this site is unoriginal. No offense, but the show itself is unoriginal. All this has been and will be again. But being unoriginal does not automatically equate to being untruthful, and truth is where I try to live as writer (emphasis on the word "try"). If that means doing a few things that seem too predictable but also inevitable, then so be it.**_

 _ **There was also a comment that Reid's arrest wasn't probable. I'm just going to point back to the actual show itself—you do know that the BAU doesn't have its own private jet in real life, right? There are so many other points of this show that I could use as an example as well. However, we viewers engage the "suspension of disbelief", as we do anytime we read a book or go to the theatre or watch a TV show. I'm asking you to extend that technique to this fic as well, for just a little bit longer. When you take a peek at all the things in this next chapter, you'll understand why the arrest wasn't only probable—but also very logical. I don't have the right to demand you continue reading, but I am asking you to simply trust me. Trust me for about 17 chapters, and it'll all make sense (I know, SEVENTEEN chapters...but hey, you made it this far, right?).**_

 _ **A few seemed to think that the ending was too predictable. That was the point. I'm going to safely bet that about 95% of the readers knew how this was going to end by about chapter 5 (or whenever Reid lost his phone). The story did not "fail" because it did exactly what it was meant to do. The entire thing was like a trainwreck—you saw it coming, you hoped it wouldn't end exactly how you knew it would, and you couldn't look away, even though you *knew* what would happen. It wasn't really about having a "cliff-hanger" or "surprise twist"—the story I really, really wanted to write was this one, and in order for it to happen, I had to tell the story in 'The Way the World Ends' first. I promise, if you hang in here for about six chapters more, you'll understand why (I know, I keep asking you to keep holding on...).**_

 _ **Another mentioned that the build-up to the UNSUB Benjamin Fuller seemed rushed—and it was. There are two parts in 'The Way the World Ends' that I'm unhappy with (I won't mention the other, but it required some rushing, too, at least in my opinion and I wish would've had more time to build up to that event). But I will also add that in some ways, the rush was intentional (even though I wasn't entirely happy with the final executed product). You'll see why, in this story—my intent was to have you spinning about dizzily at the new information and the new suspect (though, technically, Agent Fuller has been a part—albeit very small—of the story for many chapters), hoping that it meant the BAU was in the clear. You were given the sparsest of details about Fuller, so that you could be left with questions of who he was and how he fit into this. Obviously, these questions are going to be answered in this story. I wanted an ending that was a bit frayed and messy—and also, with so many different threads in this story, I couldn't follow every single one in great detail. So in a way, I did have to go back to the who-dunnit formula, of having our investigators see and learn things "off-screen" from the readers, as it were. But we're going to see some of those things in the upcoming chapter, so sit tight.**_

 _ **Again, I ask: if you are going to leave a final review on a completed work that requires feedback, please do so under an actual account. Unless of course you're simply trolling—at which point, please just don't. It's not good for your karma.**_

 _ **I write people as they are. I put a lot of time and effort into accurately recapturing the personalities of characters whom we have fallen in love with—because they aren't mine. They're someone else's babies, and I (as well as all other fanfic writers) have an obligation to treat them well and treat them truthfully. That's not to say that I don't sometimes wiggle the boundaries or that I don't mess it up—but I refuse to put them in unfathomable situations or show them in an uncharacteristic light. However, sometimes, in order to get them into whatever space I want my story to take place, I do have to create a very specific set of circumstances, which in turn would create a very specific set of reactions from those particular personalities with their particular histories.**_

 _ **That set of circumstances was the entire story of 'The Way the World Ends'. And this, my dears, is the actual story. Everything you've read before was merely a very, very long prologue.***_


	2. Third Eye of the Storm

**Third Eye of the Storm**

" _I knew immediately something was terribly wrong, but you can know that and not allow the thought in your head, at the front of your head. It dances around at the back, where it can't be controlled."_ _  
_ _~Sebastian Barry_ _._

* * *

 _ **February 2015. Dumfries, Virginia.**_

The moment the phone rang, Judith Eden knew that it couldn't be good news.

Jessalyn Keller was curled up behind her in the hotel bed, shifting back slightly to slip Judith's cellphone out of her back pocket.

She answered without glancing at the caller ID. Jess always asked her why she did that, and she always replied that she preferred the surprise of whoever was on the other end. To Jessalyn, that was illogical, impractical, and a waste of time. To Jude, it kept her from worrying about things until they were truly worth worrying about.

However, she knew who it was—the only person who could be calling her now.

"SSA Eden."

"We've got a possible lead." To anyone who didn't know Jack Dawson, her team leader would sound calm and collected. But after so many years at his side, she'd learned to detect the slightest tremor in his tone, which belied his sense of dread and the adrenaline building in his veins.

Jude's mind suddenly snapped to a previous line of conversation with Jessalyn—just a few minutes earlier, they'd been discussing Jess' depression, how deeply it had hit. Jude had learned a long time ago that Jess catalogued her days according to color—blue for happy, grey for sad or depressive, black for the lowest and most emotionally dead points.

" _What color?" She had asked._

" _Grey. Dark grey."_

" _How dark?"_

 _Jess had blinked, as if almost fearing the answer herself. "Almost black. Like the clouds during a tornado."_

Even then, Judith Eden had felt a prickle of foreboding, though she'd stamped it down. Now, that prickle rippled into something bigger, something that couldn't be so easily caged.

* * *

There was a difference between superstition and intuition. Superstition was a pointless, illogical set of behaviors and beliefs with no possible ability to predict, alter, or otherwise influence the outcome of events. Intuition was the ability to read verbal and nonverbal cues to fully comprehend current behavior and predict future behavior. Using intuition, you could even influence the outcome of events still in motion, or even events that hadn't happened yet.

Judith Eden was a firm believer in intuition—truly, as an empath with a highly developed receptiveness to other people's behaviors and emotions, how could she not be? After all, people told the truth with their movements and their tone and even the way the skin at the corners of their eyes creased—and you can use those truths to discern which moments were lies, which statements were false or true or somewhere in-between (she'd learned that the hard way, too—there were in-betweens, stories that were false but believed to be true by their raconteurs, stories they told themselves over and over again until they'd washed their own brains into believing them with a ferocity that bordered on the psychotic).

Intuition was also using past data to interpret current and future situations—using a working knowledge of human behavior and all its eccentricities to determine how certain events were going to play out, regardless of how the players within the story changed. People liked to think they were all unique little snowflakes, but the truth was, they were generally very, very predictable.

Generally. Not always.

Based on results from previous events, perhaps with a dash of that fortuitously over-developed sense of intuition, Judith Eden had the very solid gut-feeling that this wasn't going to end well at all. On the ride back to Quantico, neither she nor Jess had spoken, both wrapped up in the same worried thoughts—though Jude told herself that the uneasiness was simply a lingering malaise from Tyler Harrison. It happened that way, sometimes, with unsolved cases—they made you feel off-balance, like you were losing your edge, like maybe this was it and you'd never be able to solve another case again. She just needed a few good, solid closes on a few more cases, and the apprehension would go away again (at least for a little while).

However, once she was back in the car—this time with Jack Dawson as they headed to Benjamin Fuller's address, her sense of _not-rightness_ came bubbling up again.

Dawson was getting her up to speed on recent developments, "Apparently, Roza spoke to this guy yesterday—and O'Donnell had him interviewed, checked out, all that jazz, just like everybody else. No red flags."

Glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure their entourage of SWAT members and forensic collection agents were still in-tow, he continued, "He's not answering calls—we contacted his mother, who said she hadn't heard from him since yesterday. Apparently he called, let her know that he was safe, and that was about it. But she didn't think that was odd—she said he's not the type to talk about things."

Jude gave a small hum. _Withdrawn_. That was part of the UNSUB description given by the BAU.

"He lives alone?" More of a clarification than an actual question—if Fuller's emergency contact was his mother, it was highly doubtful that he had a wife at home.

Dawson made a small noise of affirmation. "In the middle of nowhere, it looks like."

"Like John Curtis," the words slipped from Jude's mouth before she could stop them.

"I didn't say Replicator, you didn't say Replicator." Jack reminded her gently. And she understood—Scott O'Donnell, the Quantico SAC, had been adamant in his refusal to allow anyone to make comparisons between this new UNSUB and John Curtis, who was still fresh in the minds of the Bureau. The last thing they needed was a copycat.

Of course, it didn't change the fact that the deeper they got into the case, the more points of connection they'd found—the bomb was even sent by H.J. Raymond, an alias of Adam Worth, "the Napoleon of Crime", whose name Curtis had used during his taunting of the BAU.

Jack didn't mention the BAU—or the fact that Spencer Reid and David Rossi were currently still at the Academy, at his request. They'd confessed to an interesting point of connection to the case, and until that was properly sorted, Jack preferred to keep them as close by as possible. Jude was tangentially aware of this development, but he knew that her lack of questioning on the matter was simply her attempt to stay away and seem unbiased, even though everyone on the Flying Js knew that she definitely was, especially when it came to those two men. Jack was the one who'd asked her to leave, once he'd realized that this new information from Dr. Reid cast him in an unfavorable light—Jude had obeyed the order, and her continued silence on the matter was simply a continuation of her obedience.

Knowing Jude, said obedience wasn't going to last much longer. Still, he'd take the respite while he could—he had too much else on his plate to focus on things that hadn't happened yet.

 _Yet_. Small word, such a damn kicker.

"What are the vitals on Agent Fuller?" Jude shifted focus back to safer ground.

"White male. Age 32—"

That part didn't fit the profile. He was supposed to be somewhere between 40 and 55.

"A bachelor's degree in chemistry or…some other kind of science."

"Any military?"

"Tried, but washed out."

"Hmm."

"Yeah."

Jack knew what she was thinking—it fit and it didn't fit the profile.

"On the short list for any kind of promotion?"

"Nope. And he never submitted for any kind of transfer that wasn't approved."

Another ripple of not-rightness simmered through Jude's veins. The motive, the motive, they were missing the motive, the most important part.

"Any recent personal losses?"

"None Roza found right off the bat—but she's still looking, so, who knows?"

Who knows, indeed.

* * *

Jack Dawson let Judith slightly readjust the shoulder strap on his Kevlar vest—he knew it was her little way of showing she cared, of silently saying _for god's sake don't fucking die in there, 'kay, boss?_

He merely offered a tight smile as he gave her upper arm a pat of reassurance. _I'm not dying today, Jude, and I'm not letting you die, either._

She turned her attention to checking the clip of her Glock 23—it was a beauty, with a customized nickel-boron slide with a series of numbers etched along its barrel (her father's serial number from his time in the British Armed Forces). The gun made a smooth, light click as she pulled the slide back and released it, loading a bullet into the chamber. It was reassuring, the smooth efficiency of the weapon, the way it worked, just as it was meant to, her father's number a talisman that had kept her safe thus far. If she were the type to get a tattoo, she'd already have the number on her skin, a constant presence and a permanent commitment to his memory. However, she'd grown up with a next-door-neighbor who'd had a series of numbers tattooed on his arm, against his will—and for some reason, that had always kept her from ever getting one. Mr. Barowitz was long dead and gone, but she still worried about triggering dark memories for the remaining few who'd survived the same ordeal, or worse yet, lost loved ones to the atrocity of the Holocaust.

This one was of the rare occasions in which she truly did wish to be younger—she'd have tattoos and wouldn't give a damn what other people thought, she'd be open to anyone and everyone about her relationship with Jess, she'd take her lover to Giza and Angor Wat and scale mountains and kayak through jungles and spend every second reveling in the strength and ecstasy of youth.

That was the part that sucked about getting older. You never realized how strong you'd been, how vibrant you were when you were younger. You didn't know until it was gone.

Then, of course, there was the seventeen-year difference in age between herself and Jess. She tried not to think about that too often—tried not to remember that while her life was ebbing, her lover's was still in its prime, that Jess would grow old and Jude most likely wouldn't be there to see it.

Why the hell was she thinking about all that now? Missed connections and wrong times and irreversible regrets?

 _What color?_

 _Almost black. Like the clouds during a tornado._

Between the Harrison case and the lack of sleep from this current case, Judith Eden was going batty—and in the most morbid of ways.

Still. Despite her own inner chidings, she couldn't help but feel that it was all an omen.

They were a few yards from the house now—standing next to the lone mailbox on the edge of the gravel drive, everyone with guns ready, pointed downward as they watched and waited on the entry team.

Her eyes were focused on the unassuming white door (a white front door, really, who did that nowadays, it must be hell to keep clean and pristine looking), but she could sense people shifting closer to her, closer to the house, closer to the moment of truth and revelation.

To her left, someone slightly shorter than she—Chief Cruz. Over her right shoulder, someone taller—O'Donnell, filling the small space between her and Dawson. In her peripheral vision, they were little more than dark clumps at the edge of her frame. Heavy and weighted with brooding expectancy.

 _Almost black. Like the clouds during a tornado._

Storms and thoughts of mortality. Omens indeed, and all ill.

The door swung open under the force of the battering ram, as easily as if it were a merely slab of cardboard. The agents carrying the ram stepped back, and the SWAT team slipped forward—everyone was moving forward now.

Eden and Dawson easily moved behind the first two SWAT members, muscles taunt and eyes wary as they entered the house, whose warmth seemed overwhelming after the biting cold of the wind outside. Jude's Kevlar vest suddenly felt too tight, her windbreaker too clingy as her skin heated and her lungs strained for breath.

 _Forget the internal, Jude. Focus on the external._

External: a small hallway, so narrow that she had to shift back slightly to allow Dawson to go ahead of her (the SWAT members, in their heavier gear with their bigger guns, had to walk single file completely), which opened into a larger living room that swept back into a nicely-sized kitchen. The kitchen windows looked out into a dark wood, the right side of which was edged by the river.

Amidst the scene of cozy tranquility sat its polar opposite—bloody, gory chaos. She stopped short and Scott O'Donnell very nearly ran her over—though as soon as he saw what she was looking at, he immediately stood still as well.

O'Donnell let out his breath, something between an exhale of frustration and an actual word. Jude didn't have to understand the utterance to understand its meaning—they were too late, a source of frustration mingled with the tiniest smudge of relief in knowing that at least there wouldn't be a bloody last stand which may cost yet another agent's life.

Out of sheer habit, ingrained by years of entering scenes so remarkably similar to this one, Jude's dark eyes scanned the area, mentally cataloguing the general order of the room, the placement of items and the lay of the room itself. Once the house was secured and cleared, they'd have to go back out and let the forensic team take a crack at the place—however, Jude knew that the next few minutes would be chaos, and things could get messed around in the confusion. Someone could accidentally move an item, change the forensic analyst's reading of the scene, throw evidence into the incorrect light—it had happened before, several times. Hence her vigilance in making a mental map.

One large, antique television sat in the corner of the room—if it worked, it would have been due to a sheer overpowering determination to keep it alive by its owner, because it was easily fifty years old and Jude couldn't imagine how hard it would be to track down parts for it, much less ones that actually still worked. Next to the TV was an immaculate stack of newspapers, all as smooth as if they were fresh off the press. However, the ones near the bottom of the stack were yellowing with age—this collection had easily been building over a decade. She frowned slightly at the thought. Something didn't fit right with that image.

Her eyes scanned across a wall with a painting of some pastel pastoral scene, then to the large opening that led to the kitchen. The living room floor was blanketed in a heavy carpet, rustic and welcoming but not too worn, and a smaller circular rug made an island out of the upright arm chair, which currently contained what was formerly Special Agent Benjamin Fuller. The chair was older, but in solid condition. She ignored the head wound, focused on everything around it—the pristine creases of his slacks, the near-spotlessness of his shirt (marred by the blood, of course), the easy relaxed splay of his feet, the handgun just on the other side of the chair. Her eyes moved onward, to the two large bookcases against the wall, with an antique oak credenza in-between. The bookcases were filled with outdated encyclopedias, their hunter green with gold detailing giving the room an odd sense of austerity despite the woodsy feel of the rest of the cabin.

The SWAT team rambled back through, having cleared the other side of the house, where presumably the bedrooms were. She saw the lone sheet of paper just as they shifted past to the kitchen. She moved closer, keeping her movements slow and steady so as not to stir the paper, which still trembled precariously at the edge of the credenza, where the breeze created by the heavy and hurried passing of the SWAT team had swept it, already disturbing the crime scene in a minute-yet-important way (see, _this_ was why she took stock as soon as she could—because anything, no matter how slight or unintentional, could upset and distort the scene).

She leaned forward slightly, squinting to read the small, scratchy handwriting. It appeared to be a note of some kind. Given the circumstances, a suicide note.

 _It was only a matter of time..._

"All clear!" The SWAT team leader called out, his booming voice filling the weighted silence so suddenly that Jude jumped slightly at the intrusion.

"C'mon." Dawson was at her side, his hand lightly on her elbow. "We gotta get forensics in here as quickly as possible."

She nodded, her mind still playing over the note's opening line.

 _It was only a matter of time._

 _What color?_

 _Grey. Dark grey._

 _How dark?_

 _Almost black. Like the clouds during a tornado._

* * *

In less than ten minutes, Adelaide Macaraeg had taken over the scene as lead forensic investigator—everyone in the house was suited up (the analysts with full masks and jumpsuits, the rest of the agents with just gloves and booties to keep from bringing in other contaminants), and the team of analysts from Quantico were already busily documenting the scene and unpacking their evidence collection kits while Macaraeg was doing the preliminary analysis of Agent Fuller's corpse. By the slight lift of his thick eyebrows, Jude could tell that Jack Dawson was impressed by Mac's efficiency—she was brusque without being rude, and clinical without being too removed. She understood that time was of the essence and she made sure not to waste a single second.

Jack Dawson couldn't say that he was entirely surprised when Mac announced that Fuller's death wasn't a suicide. It just made sense, in a way that couldn't be explained. It didn't help the case, but it fit.

It fit with the fact that Benjamin Fuller didn't match the UNSUB profile—in some ways, he did, but in some ways, some very important ways, he didn't. Jude had been just as doubtful on the ride over to Fuller's house.

He needed to know who Fuller was, and how he connected to it all. Jude had pointed out earlier that innocent men generally didn't kill themselves in the wake of an attack like this—and innocent men didn't get murdered in their homes after an attack like this, either.

Dawson headed down the hallway—he easily found Fuller's study, and within a few minutes, the pieces of the BAU's profile slipped back into place. His hesitancy began to fade as each new discovery brought the life and personality of Benjamin Fuller back into alignment with the BAU's portrait of the UNSUB.

Then, of course, Jude found the hidden stash of notebooks, tucked away in carved-out copies of children's books—a stark anomaly in Fuller's nonfiction, technical-manual filled study.

Judith was seated on the floor, obviously settled in for what promised to be a long haul. She handed Dawson a notebook as well, though he remained standing.

Jack flipped through a few pages, skimming—though for what, he wasn't sure.

Then he saw it. A name he knew, in a place it should never be.

 _Met with Agent Reid again. I voiced my concerns to him, which he quickly allayed—he is a man of uncommon strength, completely unwavering in his determination to finish this task…_

"God dammit to hell," the words slipped out like a sigh, a futile wish that died long before it had a chance to live.

Jude's head snapped upwards, dark brows shooting downward in an expression of confusion and concern.

Wordlessly, Jack handed her the notebook.

He figured she got just about as far into the paragraph as he did—she stopped, took half a breath, held it, released it, then turned her face back up to him again.

"What are you gonna do, boss?"

"The only thing I can, Jude." He pulled out his phone, but didn't use it. Instead, he sat down on the floor next to her. They continued their respective readings.

After a pause, Jude spoke, her voice halting tentatively, "Should I—do you want us to start keeping track of how many times Reid is mentioned in these books?"

"You found one, too." It wasn't a question—honestly, Jude wouldn't have asked her question if she didn't have a reason.

She made a small noise of affirmation, a regretful thing that she tried to cage in the back of her throat, as if she didn't want to confirm his statement at all. Not that he blamed her—he was already feeling sick, and he didn't have nearly the same emotional attachment to the young doctor as his colleague did.

Dawson turned another page—a slight shift in the notebook made him pause. Gingerly, he moved it again. Another shift, and this time, the edge of an envelope slipped from the back pages of the notebook. He gently slid it out of its resting place, opening the notebook to the section where it had been hidden.

Inside was a sheet of paper—nice, thick, the kind of stationary that you didn't just grab on the card aisle at your local shopping center. It had been folded and opened and refolded many times, judging by the worn creases.

"That isn't Fuller's handwriting," Jude commented quietly—by now, Dawson's discovery had piqued her interest and she was leaning over to get a better look.

"No, it isn't." Dawson felt another stone drop in his gut. "But I can tell you whose it looks like."

He didn't look up, but he could feel Jude's eyes flicker from the paper to his face. "How do you know?"

She didn't ask who. She knew.

"Because," Dawson sighed again. "After the eleventh-hour confession about Dr. Reid's connection to Linnea Donovan, through Maeve, I had O'Donnell pull his file. It contained after-action reports written in Dr. Reid's own hand—apparently, the man hates using computers and refuses to type out his reports. He hand-writes them instead, and then somebody scans them into the system, like a PDF. I read a few of 'em, just trying to get an idea of who he really was."

"And?" There was the old Jude again, bated breath and hopeful lilt, despite the overwhelming evidence. Dawson knew that she was asking about Dawson's decision on Reid's character, but he found himself at a loss to answer. So instead, he stuck to the things he did know.

"And I would swear on a stack of bibles that this is his handwriting."

Jude ducked her head at the pronouncement, focusing on the note itself instead. "It's a list of addresses, I think—these look like streets and house numbers, with the area code. No cities, no states."

Dawson had his phone out again, typing an address into his search engine.

"First one is a beauty supply store…in Pennsylvania." His face scrunched in confusion.

"Long way to go for a bottle of conditioner," Jude commented dryly. Then she sat back suddenly, "Shit."

"What?"

"Yesterday. When Jonas and I went over to the bomb site—with Rossi and Reid. Dr. Reid was explaining to us that TATP takes time to make. He mentioned that if the UNSUB wanted a higher concentrate of acetone, he'd go to a beauty salon."

That stone in Jack Dawson's gut tripled in size. He quickly went through the remaining addresses—all beauty supply stores or hardware stores.

"This is a list—of places to buy the ingredients for our bomb."

Even though Jude had suspected as much, her anticipation did nothing to soften the blow—the breath still left her lungs as quickly as if she'd been punched just below the ribs, her shoulders rounding inward in deflation.

The scuffling of shoes encased in forensic booties against the pine wood floor alerted them to the impending arrival of Scott O'Donnell, who appeared in the doorway, only looking momentarily confused and then worried at the sight of all the notebooks in the study.

"What didja find?" He asked, his tone and demeanor penduluming between anticipation and dread.

Dawson slowly rose to his feet again, holding out a hand to help Jude up as well. "I think we need to find Chief Cruz first—this circle needs to stay small and this story needs to be told only once."

Jude's fingers tightened around his as she pulled herself onto her feet—more of a silent warning than an actual clutch for stability. He understood. Because like Jude, his mind kept repeating one refrain.

 _It was only a matter of time…it was only a matter of time…it was only a matter of time._

* * *

" _I've got a secret for you….Something terrible is going to happen. Something terrible...and something wonderful."_ _  
_ _~Neal Shusterman_ _._


	3. Round and Round We Go

**Round and Round We Go**

" _I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place."_ _  
_ _~Raymond Carver_ _._

* * *

 _ **Benjamin Fuller's House, Rural Virginia.**_

"We need to go," Dawson's tone was low, meant only to be heard by Eden. "I'm more than certain that Mac has everything under control here, and we need to start questioning people before they know what's happened."

She nodded in agreement, following him out of the study, where they'd spent more time flipping through notebooks, each page giving them more and more reason to dread.

As they passed back through the living room, Jude stopped for a moment.

"I've figured it out," she announced, to no one in particular. Then, with a slight turn around the room, she found Macaraeg again, speaking to directly to her as she pointed to the four-foot high stack of newspapers, "Have your crew take a look at those. It doesn't make sense. This man wasn't a hoarder—he was the exact opposite. Everything in this house is in order—pristinely in order. So why keep all these newspapers? And if he was keeping newspapers, why these ones specifically?"

"Consider it done," Mac gave a curt nod. Her face mask had been pulled down past her chin, but her forensic hood was still on, giving her the appearance of a wimpled nun and only further increasing the natural intensity of her dark features and sharp edges. Jude had no doubt that Mac would not only personally see to it, but she'd also find whatever significance was behind the stack of papers.

At this point, Judith Eden would take any form of reassurance, no matter how mundane or how slight. The tornado that Jessalyn's mood had predicted was finally here in full force, and when a twister hit, you simply had to learn to grab on to whatever you could.

Dawson was already outside waiting for her, standing with Cruz and O'Donnell again. No one looked particularly thrilled. The adrenaline rush had dissipated and now everyone was tired—tired and upset.

"We've got a slight detour before we head back," Jack informed her. "Somebody has to notify Della Fuller of her son's death—might as well be us."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

The moment the phone rang, Jessalyn Keller knew that it couldn't be good news. She and Jonas had been on pins and needles for what seemed like an eternity now, waiting to hear from Dawson and Eden—no news was never good news, not in their line of work. Every minute that had ticked by since the SWAT teams' departure signaled another minute in which something had or would go wrong. You called immediately when it was good news. When it was bad news, you waited.

Jonas and Jess had been waiting over an hour. That was not a good sign at all.

"SSA Keller," she answered, though she knew it was Dawson.

"Keller." His voice was low, quiet, almost sorrowful.

 _Jude_. Her heart seized in her chest, just as surely as if someone had reached into her ribcage and squeezed it in their fist.

"Sir?" There was no breath in her lungs, yet she somehow forced the word out.

"Are Agents Rossi and Reid still at the Academy?"

"Yes, sir. You told us to make sure they stayed put—and we have." She began fiddling with a loose strand of hair, which had been tucked behind her ear. Surely if something had happened to Jude, that would have been the first thing he mentioned. Surely.

Shostakovich, who was standing beside her, moved closer, his brows knitting in concern at both her words and her tone. She removed the phone from her ear and pushed the button for speakerphone. "Sir, I just put you on speaker—Jonas is here with me, no one else."

"Benjamin Fuller is dead—murdered, apparently."

Jonas interjected, "What? By whom?"

"Still figuring that out. But it gets worse."

"Worse?" Keller's worry amped up a couple of notches as she cast a glance back to her partner. Jonas didn't look too at-ease, either.

"Fuller left behind notebooks—notebooks and notebooks filled with plans and rantings and what-have-you. And Dr. Spencer Reid plays a pretty prominent role in all the ones we've read so far."

Keller didn't respond. Honestly, she didn't know how to. Jonas remained silent as well.

Jack made some kind of shuffling noise before continuing. "Keller, you and Shostakovich have to arrest him now—and make sure David Rossi's kept in the dark. Keep it quiet. The BAU's a tight unit—I want to find out who knows what before they know what we're looking for. And I don't want anyone else to know, either—if we're wrong, I don't want Spencer Reid's career to be a casualty of our mistake."

"Of course." She hesitated before asking, "Sir, is…is everyone alright?"

Jonas' eyes snapped up to meet hers. He knew what she was really asking ( _is Jude alright?_ ). She simply stared right back at him, denying nothing.

"We're fine, Jess," Dawson's tone took on a softer edge. However, he quickly reverted back to his usual no-nonsense persona, "I need you two to take care of Dr. Reid. Pay close attention to his reaction when you tell him the charges. Then put him in an interview room ASAP—but don't talk to him til we get back. It'll be awhile—we're going to talk to Fuller's mother first—but I want you guys to spend the time observing. See how he deals with knowing that we're on to him. And I cannot stress enough how much we need to keep this quiet. Don't even make it _look_ like an arrest."

"Understood, sir." She hung up the phone, turning her attention back to Jonas.

"C'mon." She sighed. He followed dutifully. He didn't mention Jude, or his shock over Dr. Reid, though Jess could still sense his thoughts on both subjects.

It mattered, but not right now.

Her brain swirled through a myriad of thoughts. Even Dawson seemed confused—a state she'd rarely ever seen her chief in. He'd used the phrase _if we're wrong_ , he'd not wanted Dr. Reid to be tainted if they were making a mistake—but in the next breath, he was saying _we're on to him_ , with the certainty of a man who knows the suspect is guilty. In a way, she understood the wishful thinking that came from realizing your perp was actually someone you liked—you were more open to the possibility of being wrong, more willing to dismiss the feeling in your gut.

Currently, her gut was murmuring that something wasn't right. The problem was that she wasn't sure what that something was.

* * *

Dora Carrington was pumping her legs double-time down the hallway—Chief Cruz had called to inform her that the bust had been…well, a bust. He hadn't given any other details, but she'd sensed that there was a lot more going on. Unsure of what else to do, she'd decided to head down the hall to Sura Roza's temporary office, to offer whatever help she could. Given Roza's less-than-jovial personality, Carrington would most likely be met with a rebuff and a dash of disdain, but at least traveling up and down the halls gave her something to do.

She was moving so quickly that she'd almost developed tunnel vision—however a sudden movement to her left caught her attention and she spun towards it, more out of surprise than actual curiosity.

However, what she saw certainly did pique her curiosity.

The movement was simply a door being closed—by Jonas Shostakovich. Over his shoulder stood Jessalyn Keller, who was standing in front of a third person, Spencer Reid.

Something about Keller's body language didn't match up. Carrington couldn't put her finger on it—it was only a flash, gone in the blink of an eye as the door shut—but she knew something was wrong. Keller's tense frame, Shostakovich's expression—the intuition sensors in Carrington's brain were definitely blaring at all the raw data her eyes had taken in, though her mind couldn't quite process it into a proper narrative.

She wheeled around on her heel, holding her breath as she held her ear against the closed door. She didn't even give herself the chance to think about what she was doing—or what she'd say if she were caught.

She'd never disliked Dr. Reid, and she'd certainly never wished him ill, but since Jordan's sudden involvement in the case, Carrington would have to admit that she'd become more… _concerned_ with his well-being.

Keller was speaking—her voice was hurried, anxious, yet the words were muddled through the door.

 _"_ … _conspiracy to…terrorism…Please…hands behind your head."_

You didn't place your hands behind your head unless you were under arrest.

Carrington continued her flight like a bat out of hell, actually going the opposite direction of her intended target. She didn't notice and didn't care—her mind was swimming and swirling with the scraps of words she'd heard, paired with the things she'd seen. Behind her, she heard the door opening, and she slipped through the nearest doorway, which thankfully happened to be an empty classroom. She turned out the lights and kept the door open just a crack, just enough to see into the hallway. Her inner voice was screaming at her insane actions ( _what do you think you're doing, Dora—have you become some secret agent spy now?!_ ).

She held her breath (not an easy feat, considering that her adrenaline level was forcing her lungs to work double-time) as she listened for footsteps. They came closer and she instinctively shifted further away from the crack in the door, further away from the light which could slip in and reveal her hiding in the shadows.

The footsteps continued. She leaned forward to see the backs of Reid, Keller, and Shostakovich—the behavioral analyst was between the other two, and they seemed a little close for comfort. As if they were physically hemming him in, cuffing him without handcuffs, in a way.

His hands were moving, swinging freely by his side. He definitely wasn't cuffed. But the unnaturally ramrod-straight set of his shoulders and spine showed that he certainly wasn't at-ease.

Carrington opened the door a little wider as they moved further away—then the trio turned down the corridor.

She knew what lay in that section of the Academy—the interrogation rooms, designed for mock-ups, but still fully-functional. She'd helped Chief Cruz make sure that they were outfitted with everything they'd need for future interviews, so that as soon as a suspect was brought in, there wouldn't be a moment wasted on tracking down this recorder or that set of transmitters.

She hurried down the hallway after them, trying to close the gap between her and the unfolding drama. However, she slowed before she reached the corner, stopping for a moment and listening to make sure the trio was still walking down the hall, unable to hear her own footsteps.

Painstakingly, she crept the last few yards to the turn in the corridor, carefully peering around the corner.

Keller was opening the door to an interview room. Reid and Shostakovich stood back slightly. For the first time, Carrington could see Reid's face—he looked absolutely shell-shocked, and as pale as a ghost. Keller disappeared into the room. Reid followed her. Shostakovich remained in the hallway.

Keller appeared again, closing the door behind her. Carrington didn't risk it—she turned and hurried down the hall as quietly as possible.

It was real. It was happening.

She shouldn't do it, but she had to.

Despite her fumbling fingers, she quickly found Jordan Strauss' number in her cell and hit the dial button.

* * *

 _ **Della Fuller's House. Southbridge, Virginia.**_

"Why can't Ben answer these questions himself?" Della Fuller nervously played with the strand of pearls around her neck, her gaze darting from Eden to Dawson and back again. She'd already allowed the two agents to sit in her living room, so it wasn't as if she were being obstinate or unwilling to cooperate—she was merely curious, and slightly anxious. The latter reaction probably came from being the mother of a federal agent who worked in a building that had been bombed less than 48 hours ago.

"He's been out of reach at the moment." Even as Jude offered the warm smile of reassurance, she knew that she'd chosen the wrong words.

"Out of reach? What does that even mean? Oh, god, is Ben missing?" All color drained from Della's face at the horror of such a thought. Sadly, Jude realized that in a few minutes, the woman would be wishing that her son was only missing. But for now, there were pretenses to keep up.

"Mrs. Fuller, we don't believe there's any reason for concern at this time—we're just checking in on all of our agents, making sure everyone's coping well, given the events of the past few days," she infused her words with a little thicker English accent, allowing them to soothe the worried mother's mind. The woman seemed to accept this, merely nodding in understanding and pushing back her fears.

It was standard procedure to try and get as much information about the deceased's life and personality before the people being interviewed were aware of the person's death—their memories would be unclouded from the haze of shock and grief, and they also weren't saddled with that weird cultural desire not to speak ill of the dead, no matter how true the ill words were.

Still, it never made Judith feel any less manipulative. Jack knew this—he gently reached out to briefly rest his hand over hers ( _I'll handle it, Jude_ ).

Della Fuller didn't miss the little gesture—her eyes flickered up to Jude's face, rimmed with surprise.

Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This woman _really_ had the wrong idea.

"Who were Ben's closest friends?" Jack kept his tone filled with warm concern, using the nickname that Della had used for her son. "Who would he go to, if he were upset?"

"I…I don't know," she visibly balked at the realization. "I really don't know….Ben had friends in high school, a few buddies who were always around—but honestly, I don't think he's spoken to any of them in years. At least since he went to the Academy."

"What about friends from work?"

Again, her face scrunched into a thoughtful and slightly-disturbed expression. "No, he's never really mentioned anyone….I'm sorry, he's not a big socializer. Never has been, really. But especially after joining the FBI—I asked him about it once, and he said it was best not to get too attached to coworkers. Said they were always transferring, that sort of thing. Seemed like an odd reason, but then again, I've never been in a position like that and…and Ben's very—he's a deeply emotional boy. He's the kind of person who is a friend for life, you know?"

"Except he's no longer friends with his buddies from high school," Jack pointed out.

"Well, that wasn't his choice," Della looked down, flicked an imaginary piece of lint off her knee. "One of 'em died overseas—Afghanistan. The other two got into drugs. Obviously, they didn't want anything to do with Ben, once he decided to join the FBI. It's funny, but that's how a lot of folks around here got—you think they'd be proud that one of their own became a Special Agent, but they all act so weird around him, like they're afraid he'll arrest them for any little thing. As if he would—he spends all day working with computers!"

She laughed at that, as if the perceived glamour and danger of her son's life was woefully out of touch with his reality (not that she wasn't far off the mark, Jude admitted—except for the part where her son became involved in domestic terrorism).

"Is that why he lives in a cabin, out in the middle of nowhere?" Jack's voice was lined with a hint of compassion. "So he doesn't have to deal with everyone ostracizing him?"

Della's face contorted into a look of sorrow. She sighed, looking away for a moment. "I'm sure it has something to do with it, now that you mention it. But I always assumed it was…it's his father's cabin. A project they worked on together, before my husband died. I used to think it was so silly—building a cabin less than five miles from your actual home. But my husband always insisted it was the principle of the thing—being able to get away and stay away, even if only for a weekend. I thought Ben moved out there to be close to him—close to the memory of better times, you know?"

Jude nodded, though her heart ached at the realization that Della Fuller's memory of that cabin was soon to be ruined by what had happened there tonight.

Jack Dawson gave a hum of understanding, waiting a beat before continuing, "Mrs. Fuller, when you spoke to Ben last night, how did he sound?"

"How did he sound? Like always, I guess. It was hard to tell how things were affecting him—and goodness knows, I tried. But he's a very private person. And he's always been a bit…morose, I suppose is the word for it. A bit like Eeyore in Winnie-the-Pooh."

An odd reference, but Jack Dawson didn't comment on it. Instead, he nodded, allowing Mrs. Fuller to continue.

"He didn't—he isn't depressed or anything horrible like that…."

Judith Eden bit the inside of her cheek to keep from retorting that depression wasn't _anything horrible_ , and there was no reason to adopt such a tone, as if that were the worst accusation that could be leveled at her son—her son, who'd bombed a fucking building filled with innocent people.

"He just is kind of…flat. He stays at one level, most of the time. Doesn't get excited about much, doesn't get upset about much. I'm not saying he wasn't upset about what happened yesterday—god, he's not a sociopath."

 _Psychopath_ , Eden's mind internally corrected her. If Benjamin Fuller had been either of those, he would have been a psychopath—well-educated, cool, calm, meticulous and methodical, able to appear normal to the people around him, able to control his emotions and hold down a steady job. A sociopath would have been his polar opposite.

"Of course not," Dawson reassured her, and something in his tone informed Jude that he'd mentally made the same correction. Unaware of the undertone, Della smiled gratefully at his understanding.

"He's just…harder to read than the average guy," she added another layer, another smile, another step to distance herself from anything she might have implied in her previous comment. That smile quickly slipped away, "I think he was still in shock over it all, really."

"What did he say, exactly?" Jack Dawson had to will his muscles not to tense, not to give any outward sign of how important her next answer just might be.

"Not much—he assured me that he was fine, that the bomb didn't go off anywhere near him or his office. But he kept—he said it a few times, he said he couldn't believe how many innocent people got hurt."

Jude sat back slightly. That certainly was a new twist—a bomber who felt badly for his victims. Whether it was remorse or simply incredulity that his plan hadn't gone accordingly, was still to be decided.

"Did he say anything else?"

"No. He just told me that he was going to stop by and see me on Saturday, like always—I can still manage just fine, but he likes coming over to take care of the yard work. I think he plans on clearing out the gutters, something like that. I could do it myself, but I let him because it's his little way of showing he cares. His father really would be proud of him."

Judith Eden was fairly certain that his father would be the opposite of proud, at this point. But who knows? Maybe Father Fuller had also held a burning desire to blow up the FBI.

Dawson glanced down at his hands, which were clasped in front of him—this next question was going to be tricky to navigate, even under the best of circumstances.

"Mrs. Fuller, have you noticed anything different about Ben lately?"

"Different? Different how?"

So this definitely wasn't going to wrap up easily. "Has he mentioned any new friends, started acting withdrawn or otherwise different—has he mentioned possibly going on a trip, anything like that?"

"A trip?" She scoffed at the idea. "Where would he go? It's the middle of February, and the only places he'd visit would be within the continental United States."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he hates flying, so Hawaii's out of the question, and he's the reddest-blooded American I know. A total patriot—only buys American, only travels in America." She had the good grace to cast a slightly-apologetic smile in Jude's direction. In that moment, she reminded Jude of Jessalyn's mother—the always on-point and always aware of everyone else's feelings Southern belle.

Jude gave a small smile back. It took more effort than it normally should have.

"So, no difference in behavior?" Dawson clarified.

"No—but then again, I guess I'm not the best judge," Della shrugged easily. "I see him once a week. I'm sure his fellow agents could give you a better answer."

As if suddenly realizing something, she leaned forward, "Have you checked with one of them? Maybe he's out having a drink—or visiting the hospital."

"Ma'am, you've already said that he makes a point of not making friends at work," Dawson quietly reminded her.

"Oh." She sat back. "That's right."

And then, it was as if the full gravity of the situation fell upon her shoulders, "Well, if he isn't home, and he isn't at Quantico and he doesn't have any friends to be with, where is he?"

Regardless of how Jude felt about the woman or her son, this was always the moment when her heart truly snapped.

"Mrs. Fuller," she reached out—not actually taking Della's hand, but allowing herself to be easily accessible if the woman was the type who wanted physical comfort (you never knew until the reality hit—some people held onto your hand like a life raft, some hugged you, some collapsed, some didn't want to be touched at all). She kept her voice low, full of compassion but also full of certainty, "About an hour ago, we found your son's body. He's dead, Mrs. Fuller. It appears that he was murdered."

No need to tell her all of the details just yet. She needed to absorb one shock before she was dealt another.

* * *

Jack Dawson took a deep breath of the cold night air as he wearily trudged down the front steps—he would have handled the notification, but he had to admit, he was glad that Jude had chosen to. Eden was by far his most compassionate team member, and her ability to read human behavior also allowed her to adapt her approach to whatever the recipient's needs might be.

Della Fuller had needed an anchor, someone to tie her to reality. She'd clutched Jude's wrist with such fervor that Jack knew there would be red marks left behind. Jude had been gentle, but firm—she didn't allow Mrs. Fuller to believe for a single second that there had been a mistake, that her son could possibly still be alive. She'd also informed the woman that the person responsible was directly linked to the bombing—and not unkindly, she'd told Della that she would probably read some very unfavorable things about her son in the near future. She tried to soften the blow as much as possible, and Della Fuller had seemed to understand and appreciate her efforts.

Jude slipped out behind him, exhaling with a slight whistle. It hadn't been easy, going over a few more questions with Mrs. Fuller after she'd learned the truth about her son's death, but it hadn't blown up in their faces either, so it was a win on some small scale.

"Ready, Guv?" She only called him that was when she was trying to lift his spirits—though this time, he got the sense that she needed to raise her own as well.

He gave a small nod as they continued to the SUV parked in the driveway. He gently stopped her, giving her a moment to face him fully before he quietly asked, "Y'Okay?"

"I don't know," she answered truthfully, her dark brows quirking downward into a pained expression. "But I know I will be, by the time we get back to Quantico."

He understood what she meant— _my emotions are still all over the place, but I'll have them back in their boxes by the time I need to do my job again_.

He gave a curt nod, "Can't ask for more than that."

He moved to the driver's side, but her voice stopped him.

"Jack…are _you_ OK?"

He turned back to her. With a light shrug, he held out his hands helplessly, "I don't know, Jude. It's one of those nights where I just don't know anything."

She took a beat to study him, her big brown eyes swallowing every inch of him with the clinical curiosity of a seasoned investigator who also knew him as deeply as a friend. He knew she was looking for something—and he knew why. Jude, highly perceptive individual that she was, had sensed that something wasn't being said on his end, that he was mulling over something in his mind, and she wanted to know what it was and why it was bothering him.

But Jack wasn't ready to speak those thoughts aloud. So he simply confessed that. "Jude, I'm not ready to share—not yet."

Now it was her turn to nod in understanding as she moved towards the passenger door of the SUV. Jack was a quiet man, a thinker, a brooder, and she knew that he preferred to work out all the kinks of a line of thought in the confines of his own mind before voicing them aloud. She'd noticed the silence, he'd acknowledged that her guess was correct and had promised to tell her whenever he'd worked it out, and really, there wasn't any more she could ask for. Pushing for more wasn't just rude—it'd put more pressure on him, keeping his mind from being relaxed enough to unravel whatever tangle was batting around his brain.

She waited until they were pulling onto the street before she spoke again, "It's like a puzzle—but some of the pieces are from a different one. She says he didn't have friends at work, but he would have had to have been close to Reid—"

"Men don't tell their mothers everything," he reminded her. "Besides, _collaborators_ isn't always the same thing as _friends_."

"Perhaps. But then she says that he kept mentioning all the innocent people—seems a bit out of character with a bomber, dunnit?" She cocked her head to the side as she turned to watch him. "I mean, why care? Unless his concern was for the fact that the bomb didn't reach its intended target."

"Which technically included Dr. Reid." Dawson added. He was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth now. "But part of our theory brushed against the idea that the person who sent it would send it to himself, to divert suspicion, knowing full well that it would never reach its intended destination."

"Then why would Fuller be surprised when it did exactly as it was supposed to do?"

Jude's question hung in the air for a beat.

Her chief pulled the car onto US 1 South, revving up the car's engines as he sped back towards Quantico.

"Call Joe and Jess," he told her, nodding towards her cellphone, which was in the cup holder (she always left her phone in the car for notifications, it was an odd way of paying her respects). "Tell 'em to have Rossi and Reid ready for interviews as soon as we get there. I get the feeling that we're jumping from the frying pan straight to the fire with this one."

* * *

" _Here we go round the prickly pear  
Prickly pear prickly pear  
Here we go round the prickly pear  
At five o'clock in the morning."_

 _~T.S. Eliot._


	4. Hangknot, Slipknot, A Little More Rope

**Hangknot, Slipknot, A Little More Rope**

" _Man, honest as he may be, is not infallible. In times of emotional stress, he often draws false conclusions from startling circumstances. This human weakness has resulted in convicting some men who were innocent."  
~Unknown._

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

A movement at the door caused Sura to snap her head up (she'd consumed way too much coffee and now she'd become a bit skittish). She smiled slightly when she saw Jack and Judith enter, reaching up to slip off her noise-cancelling headphones with one hand as she simultaneously paused her music with the other.

"Oh, my darlings," she gave a saddened moue of disapproval at their weary and worn faces.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Judith assured her, though Sura got the feeling that it was a lie.

"What've you got so far, Sura?" Jack asked, making a beeline for the coffee pot.

"On which front?" She returned solicitously. "I'm looking into Dr. Reid's background, and into Fuller's, and then also into any possible connection the two might have had."

"Just…all of it," Jack gave a slight flop of his free hand. "Give me whatever you've got."

The door opened again and Scott O'Donnell entered, looking slightly relieved to see Dawson and Eden, "Good, you're back."

"Oh, he's rejoicing at our return—must not know us well enough yet," Jude mused with a wry smile, which Scott returned with equal dryness.

Dawson turned to face O'Donnell, giving a slight motion over to Sura, "We're just playing a little catch-up before we start interviewing Reid and Rossi."

O'Donnell nodded, gesturing for Sura to continue.

"Right. So," she turned her attention back to the computer screen, clicking through a series of windows. "Benjamin Fuller—I gave you the basics earlier, age, education, all that jazz. Still nothing in his file that screams _I'm about to blow you all to kingdom come_. His name doesn't show up in any of the interviews, from when agents were asked if they'd noticed any of their colleagues seeming withdrawn or distant or acting strangely. He seems to pull support positions for every case, nothing commending him for bravery or otherwise going above and beyond the call of duty. No mentions of him in any articles or news reports—in fact, the only news articles on him are a local paper's listing for his high school graduating class. He doesn't have a Facebook, Twitter, Tinder, MySpace, Snapchat—no online presence whatsoever. Not impossible, but a bit unusual for someone of his age."

"I didn't notice any kind of technology in this house, did you?" Dawson glanced over at Eden.

She shook her head, "No laptop. No desktop computer….I'm not even sure the television worked."

"Isn't that a bit odd?" O'Donnell's brow quirked in askance. "I mean, the guy worked with computers."

"Maybe he didn't want to be reminded of work while he was at home," Eden offered, though she didn't seem committed to her idea.

"Dr. Reid seems to be of the same outlook," Roza commented, her eyes darting across the screen. "Now, I can find more things about Reid—mentions in news articles, even a few copies of some papers he's written or presentations he's given. But no, it's not going to be as easy as realizing they're friends on Facebook, if that's what you were hoping for."

"Not a chance," Dawson informed her drolly. "We prefer our cases with a little more challenge than that."

Eden gave a hum of amusement.

"Back to Benny-boy," Roza redirected. "Aside from the death of his father over a decade ago, there really isn't any other loss that could easily be seen as a precursor to the attack."

"Fitting more and more with our idea that Fuller was just a patsy," Dawson turned to Jude again, who nodded in agreement. He explained to O'Donnell, "Fuller's mother stated that Benjamin didn't make friends easily, but when he did, he was loyal til the end. He also seemed to be extremely patriotic—not that either of those are faults, but if you combined them with some kind of personal admiration he might have held for someone higher up in the Bureau…well, it could easily feed into him being led astray and into some questionable acts."

"The note with the addresses," O'Donnell put the two pieces together. "It was supposedly in Reid's handwriting."

He used the word _supposedly_ because even though it did look like Spencer Reid's scrawl, he was having the writing analyzed for verification. Dawson wouldn't have asked for anything less.

"So in terms of motive, Reid looks better," Dawson shifted his attention back to Sura. He downed the rest of his tepid coffee and tossed the paper cup in the trash bin.

"Perhaps," she gave a slight shrug. "I mean, yes—his loss was more recent, and the thing with Linnea Charles implies that connection is being played upon—but it seems as equally unrelated as the death of Fuller's father. Maeve Donovan's case wasn't handled by the FBI."

She held up a file folder, offering it to her boss, "I printed it out and highlighted the parts you need to know."

He didn't smile, but she could tell that he was grateful as he gingerly took the file on Maeve Donovan's murder—at least as grateful as one could be about having yet another senseless death to look at.

Judith picked up the line of inquiry as her boss began skimming the file contents. "Having Miss Donovan's case handled by the FBI doesn't necessarily mean that they are without blame—at least not in Spencer Reid's mind. Though one has to wonder why he took so long to act upon it, if he is doing this in retaliation for the loss."

"Maybe he was trying other ways of coping," O'Donnell shrugged. "Maybe he needed time to select the perfect co-conspirator. You can't exactly just walk up to someone and say 'hey, I'm thinking about bombing Quantico, wanna join me?'"

"Valid point," Eden conceded.

"Speaking of points," Sura piped up again. "There isn't any points of connection between Fuller and Reid—never worked on a case together, didn't go through the Academy together, nothing. Aside from working in the same building, there's really nothing to connect them."

Dawson gave a heavy sigh, not looking up from the file as he asked, "O'Donnell, how many cameras you got in that place?"

The Quantico SAC looked perplexed by the question. He gave a slight shrug, "Maybe a hundred, I haven't a clue. That's a question for the tech department."

"Roza, direct that question to the tech department," Dawson commanded. "And then get 'em to pull all the footage they can from the building."

"You're not seriously going to analyze every hour of security footage looking for a moment that Reid and Fuller could've passed each other in the hallway, are you?" Eden's voice was breathless with incredulity.

"Don't worry—you won't be the one watching it," Dawson returned dryly. With a slight lift of his eyebrow, he added, "Neither will I, for that matter."

He read a few more lines before closing Maeve's folder and handing it over to Jude as he continued, "Besides, I'm looking for something very specific."

"Such as?"

"One step at a time," he informed her, much to the dismay of everyone in the room.

"The techs have already got at least the last two weeks of footage up and running right now—they've been trying to find where and how someone might have smuggled in the items needed to make the bomb," Sura pointed out. "Now that we know that Benjamin Fuller was behind it, we can narrow down where we're actually looking."

O'Donnell nodded in agreement. Jude made a small noise that couldn't be definitively labeled as agreement or dissent.

"There is—there's something else," Sura halted, as if unsure of whether or not to share. But now everyone was staring at her, so she pushed forward. "Um, earlier, I went back to the Mobile Command Center—I needed some more cable—well, that's not the point, anyways—and the techs stationed there told me something…I don't know if means anything—"

"Yes, you do," Jack assured her. "You're a smart woman, Sura. If you didn't think it meant something, you wouldn't be telling us now."

She ducked her head slightly, as if she wanted to disagree, as if she wanted to be wrong, to be crying out a false alarm. Her action did nothing to settle the feeling of uneasiness in O'Donnell's gut.

"You know, the BAU was working with the two techs from D.C., earlier today. Federer was complaining that Dr. Reid had been particularly unhelpful—like he was shooting down every suggestion they had, almost as if he was trying to…I don't know. Honestly, if it had been just Federer saying it, I wouldn't have paid it any mind—the man's an idiot. Don't get me wrong, he's good at his job, but he's still an idiot. But Viega, the other tech, was agreeing with him." Sura shrugged again, "It seemed inconsequential, when they were talking about it—but now—"

"But now it's suddenly an admission of guilt?" Jude finished, slightly incredulous.

"Now it just seems suspicious," Sura found her mental footing. "I mean, they were trying to track down possible purchases of bomb materials, and Reid basically told them not to even try. At first glance, it may seem like he was streamlining the investigation, but now—maybe he was afraid that they might actually find something. Something that wouldn't look too good for him."

"Contact Viega and Federer," Dawson informed her. "Have them get over here as soon as possible. I want to know exactly what was said, and how it was said—it may be a rabbit trail, but we'll at least look into it."

"So we're going to build our whole case over a man being slightly uncooperative?" Jude looked at her boss, trying to keep her tone neutral and failing. "Jesus, if that was all it took, we'd all be in jail."

"But maybe it speaks to a pattern," O'Donnell spoke up. He'd been thoughtfully silent for the past few minutes. "The morning of the bombing, Dr. Reid was uncooperative—he wouldn't surrender his cellphone, like the rest of the agents."

"A cellphone that was used to send an email to Linnea Charles," Sura pointed out.

O'Donnell nodded as he continued, "I chalked it up to adrenaline, fear, whatever—then when Agent Jareau was brought out of the building, Reid broke past the cordon and went into the ambulance with her—and supposedly, that's when he somehow lost his phone. The piece of evidence that could definitively tie him to the email—"

"Or definitively prove his innocence," Jude added, her teeth practically gritted together.

"One isolated incident is an exception—but a pattern of behavior is evidence," Dawson quoted an axiom that everyone in the room had heard at least once during their Academy days.

"But not an admission of guilt," Jude reiterated. A warning danced at the edges of her low tone, but a quick, cutting glance from Dawson sent her back to inspecting the file on Maeve, lips pressed into a firm line.

O'Donnell told himself that he needed to learn how to master Dawson's silent communication skills—how much easier his job would be, if he could put agents back in line with a single look.

Jack Dawson focused on Sura again, "Anything else I need to know?"

"Maybe?" Sura didn't seem very sure. She clicked through a few files on her computer, "Dr. Reid's pretty clean—a few action reports putting him in the line of fire, but nothing requiring suspension. There isn't a single instance of being denied for any kind of promotion—all in all, he has the marks of being a Bureau golden child. Aside from today's behavior, there aren't any real red flags."

Jack could feel Jude tensing up, as if she were holding back another retort, but she didn't voice it aloud.

"Alright. Thank you, Sura." He turned to O'Donnell, "Is Rossi ready for questioning?"

O'Donnell nodded.

"Then let's get started," Dawson decreed, heading for the door. He gave one last missive to Sura over his shoulder, "Let me know as soon as those two analysts get here. I want to talk to them before I question Dr. Reid—he's going to have a lot to answer for, before this night's over."

* * *

 _ **Benjamin Fuller's House, Rural Virginia.**_

"You've photo-documented the room, correct?" Adelaide Macaraeg took a moment to simply stand in the doorway of Benjamin Fuller's study, taking in the rows upon rows of books and notebooks.

The younger tech nodded in affirmation, glancing down at his camera to click through the series of photos, as if double-checking himself. "Yes'm. Got it all, from every angle."

"That's a mighty big claim—but I'm sure you got enough," Mac always found the certainty of youth amusing. She moved across the room, looking up at the floor-to-ceiling case of notebooks, a sense of dread settling onto her chest with a heavy weight (weeks, _months_ , this could take, to analyze everything). Without turning back to the tech, she commanded, "Bring the big clear evidence tubs from the van—we'll have to take this all back to Quantico."

"All of it?"

She turned back to the young man, who looked slightly worried at the idea. "Well, we can leave the desk and the shelves. Just the books."

He didn't respond; he merely ducked his head and left the room.

Good to see she was making herself popular with the fellow techs.

She shifted closer to the desk, almost absentmindedly opening the drawers. Unsurprisingly, there were more notebooks inside. She picked one up and flipped through it—pages upon pages of Fuller's handwriting flashed past her eyes. Sometimes the ink color changed, here and there was a page slightly more crumpled, as if there had been some slight water damage, but there wasn't anything outstandingly unique about the journal. Apparently, it was his most recent one, because the last thirty pages or so were blank.

She needed to figure out which notebook the faux-suicide note had been taken from. She crouched down, gingerly taking the stack and pushing the notebooks to one side, making their spiral spines form an orderly row of steps.

Not a single shred of torn paper trapped within the spirals. Whoever had torn out the page had been meticulous—they hadn't even left a clue as to where the page itself had come from.

Or maybe it hadn't come from any of these at all. There were certainly plenty of others to choose from.

She checked a few more, being careful to keep them in their original order. The notebooks in the desk drawer all appeared to be part of some personal diary. It seemed odd that Agent Fuller, involved in a clandestine conspiracy to bomb the Federal Bureau of Investigation, hadn't been slightly more cautious with the books containing his plans. After all, he'd gone through the trouble of creating hollow books to hide the other notebooks—so why leave the others out in the relative open?

That's when Mac noticed the lock—one on the desk drawer itself.

She frowned slightly, leaning in to inspect it. The lock face wasn't scratched, the wood unsplintered, meaning that no one had forced it open. Which meant that it had been opened with a key. She rocked back onto her heels again, craning her neck to see the desk's surface, which was smooth and devoid of any key.

If Jack Dawson or Judith Eden had unlocked the desk, surely they would have said something—or at the very least, left the key where the evidence team could easily find it.

Evidence team. Perhaps the tech photo-documenting the room had removed the key, unlocked the drawer, and then replaced the key where he'd found it, so that it could also be photo-documented. Unlikely, but the best guess she had at the moment.

Mac stood, opening the remaining drawers.

Nothing.

She started for the door, almost bumping into the young tech whom she'd sent out to grab the evidence tubs.

"Oh, there you are," she easily removed the stack of tubs from the dolly which the tech had wheeled in. "Quick question—did you unlock the desk drawer?"

"No," he face skewed in slight confusion. "It was like that when I got in here."

"So, you didn't see a key anywhere?"

"Not that I remember, off the top of my head. But gimme a sec—I'll go grab the camera and look through the photos." He was gone before she could even thank him. Obviously, he'd understood that this might be an important clue.

With a slight sigh, Mac turned back to survey the room again. She really hoped this meant something. She didn't have time to be chasing ghosts. Everything about this case had a bad feel to it, and every discovery only furthered the feeling.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Mateo Cruz was surprised to see that Dora Carrington was still at the Academy when he returned from Benjamin Fuller's house—although, on second thought, he wasn't really surprised at all. Carrington had proven herself to be an absolute workhorse over the past few months—and over the past two days in particular.

"Sir," she looked relieved to see him, though her left hand immediately began fidgeting with a ring on her right hand. "What's—did they find anything?"

Her first question was going to be _what's happening_ , but she'd changed it. An odd thing to do, and an odd thing to notice, Cruz thought. She went from being certain of an outcome to being uncertain of any outcome at all.

"Fuller's dead," he informed her. "But he left behind a lot of evidence."

"What kind of evidence?" She seemed to be holding her breath.

"Notes—a manifesto of sorts, that kind of thing. It looks like he may have had an accomplice."

"Oh? Who?" Something in her tone wasn't right. As if she already knew the answer.

Cruz took a moment to consider his next answer. Jack Dawson had already made it crystal clear that the Flying Js, Cruz, O'Donnell, and Macaraeg were to be the only ones who knew about the mention of Reid in the notebooks. So he followed protocol and simply offered, "We don't know yet."

"Oh," Carrington looked away. She seemed…disappointed.

Cruz decided that he was much too tired to try analyzing people's nonverbal cues. Right now, everything he knew about life in general and the BAU in particular was upside down, so he didn't even trust himself to given an accurate reading of his own secretary's behavior.

"I don't think I'll be needing you for the rest of the night, Carrington," he informed her wearily. "Go home, get some rest. I doubt tomorrow will be any easier—but I think it'll be more bearable if at least one of us gets a little bit of sleep."

"Yes, sir," she gave a curt nod and went to gather her things. She hesitated before saying goodbye, as if there was something more she wanted to say, but decided against it.

Or maybe she didn't do that at all. He was so tired, it could have all just been in his head.

* * *

Carrington waited until she was in her car before she called Jordan Strauss.

"What's happened now?" Jordan answered, not bothering with a greeting (another trait from her mother).

"He's denying it—well, technically he's not denying, since I didn't ask him outright—but he did lie to me. He said they didn't have a named suspect yet."

Jordan gave a low hum. Carrington had called her earlier, telling her about witnessing Spencer Reid's arrest, and Jordan had pressed her to see what else she could glean from Cruz, who as the section chief would obviously be aware of whatever was going on. Cruz's feigned ignorance seemed to only darken the situation.

"What should we do now?" Carrington asked quietly, fully aware of how ridiculous it was, having a secretary and a museum curator playing sleuths on an FBI bombing case.

"I need to tell Dave," Jordan admitted.

"I don't think you'll be able to."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm pretty sure he's still here, at Quantico."

"What?"

"I think they're holding him for questioning—if it is true, and Dr. Reid is a suspect, the whole BAU's going to have to be put back under the microscope."

"I, um—OK. I'll handle this."

"Jordan…"

"Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything dangerous. I won't even leave my house."

"If it were anyone else giving that line, I might be reassured, but with you—"

"Oh, whatever. If you didn't want me involved, you shouldn't have involved me."

Carrington couldn't argue with that—and she also couldn't admit why she'd wanted Jordan involved. It was a horribly twisted way to stay in-touch, a means of staying tied-in to Jordan's life, and there was no way it could end well.

"What are you going to do?" Carrington asked quietly.

"At this point, Carrington, the less you know, the better."

That was completely not reassuring. At all.

* * *

Now granted, David Rossi didn't have an off-the-charts, blindingly stellar IQ—but you didn't have to be a genius to figure out that something was definitely up.

Of course, he was in a heightened state of awareness, due to his recent acceptance of the invitation to spend a little quality time in a secluded room at the Academy—not that he'd had any real choice, no matter how nicely Scott O'Donnell had couched the terms. However, he hadn't really reached the place of _worry_ just yet—he had nothing to hide, and despite many soul-crushing moments in his career, he'd learned to inevitably trust the truth to come out and prove itself.

Hotch had been informed of what was going on, and where Rossi and Reid were, and that was Dave's only real concern. The time spent waiting was boring but not entirely unpleasant. He read some old magazines, stared at a crack in the wall's paint, spent a little time watching a spider weave its web in a corner of the room—all in all, a relaxing and rewarding experience.

Smart-assed nonchalance quickly disappeared when Agent Keller entered the room, her pretty face set in a grim expression (though, to be fair, he'd never seen her ever give so much as a smile, so really her serious countenance wasn't exactly a herald of things to come). She strode towards him confidently, gently holding out her hand, as if she did so against her own will.

"Agent Rossi, I have to ask you to relinquish your phone."

His eyebrows lifted in surprised, but he easily acquiesced, depositing the phone into her open palm.

"Am I allowed to ask what's going on?" He kept his voice cordial, unassuming.

"Of course. Free country—ask whatever you like," she matched his tone. For the first time, he saw the beginnings of a smile dance at the corner of her eyes. "Doesn't mean I'll answer, though."

He decided that he liked Agent Keller.

"Well, I'll take my chances: what's going on?"

"I'm taking you to an interview room—a proper interview room," she stepped back, jerking her chin in the direction of the doorway and waiting for him to rise and follow her.

"The purpose being, I assume, to interview me."

"Yes." Another almost-smile, neither cold nor warm. She didn't dislike him, but she was remaining professionally aloof—a good thing to do if you're talking to a potential suspect. Rossi had implemented the tactic himself, from time to time. It was a survival mechanism, a way to keep from getting too emotionally attached to someone who might end up being the UNSUB. While he understood her reasoning, he also felt a slight ripple of injustice at the fact that she thought such a thing was necessary, with him.

He followed her down the hallway with an air of good-natured ease (it was a lie, his skin was singing with the feeling of danger, but he'd learned a long time ago to keep things like that to himself). Keller might be trying to politely block him out, but that didn't mean he was obligated to let her do so, not without a fight.

So he pushed further, always keeping his tone friendly, "Please tell me I'm not gonna get stuck in a room with Agent Shostakovich again."

Now she grinned—and even made a small sound that resembled a strangled laugh. "No. Eden and Dawson will be conducting your interview. They're on their way in now—I was told to go ahead and bring you into the room. Give you time to get comfortable."

It was a seamless lie. If David Rossi hadn't spent more than half his life in law enforcement, he might believe it. Putting a suspect in an interview room before the interviewers entered wasn't about making the suspect comfortable—it was about being able to observe him or her, to read their behavior and see how to get inside their head before the interviewer even stepped foot inside the room.

Still, he'd give her points for good delivery and the easiness with which she lied. Admirable traits, given their profession.

They wound their way through a new set of halls, none of which Rossi remembered, even though he'd spent considerable time at the Academy in the past. If his bearings were still correct, they were now on the northern side of the building, where classrooms slowly melted away into crime-scene mock-ups and other training tools.

The room was a real interview room—actually, it was used in training exercises, but it was still set up just like a real interview room—with white-washed walls, no windows except for the long black one-way mirror. He cast a brief glance in the ominous black rectangle's direction, wondering who was already on the other side.

This was the moment that David Rossi truly felt the gravity of the situation.

"Can I get you anything?" Keller turned to him with a solicitous air. "Water?"

"Why do I get the feeling you're about to read me my rights?" The genial tone from earlier was gone, replaced with cautious searching.

"I'm not," she assured him, offering a perfunctory smile that could be better described as a mere muscle tic than an actual expression of reassurance. She shifted away, back towards the door, adding over her shoulder, "Dawson and Eden might, but I'm not."

Well, that was reassuring.

Keller quietly closed the door behind her, and Rossi settled into his chair—out of sheer obstinance and a growing desire to screw with whoever was behind the glass, he chose the chair that faced away from the mirror, denying the looky-loos a chance to read his expression or otherwise catalogue his behavior. He was also sending a message, which he knew they got loud and clear: _I'll follow the letter of your directions, but not the spirit—I can protest without protesting, you know._

* * *

From behind the glass, Jonas Shostakovich gave a slight huff of frustrated amusement. Keller hadn't specifically told Rossi which chair to take—because, given his decades' worth of experience in law enforcement, she knew that he was well aware of where he should sit. Rossi wasn't even playing dumb—he was being outright uncooperative, which wasn't exactly a good sign for things to come.

The door opened, bringing in a shaft of light before Keller closed it again. Her low-heeled boots clicked slowly across the tiles, hands tucking into her jeans' front pockets as she turned her attention to the interview room.

"So it's gonna be one of those interviews," was her only observation. Jonas hummed in agreement.

"I don't like this," she admitted quietly, her voice low and heavy with conviction. "I don't like any of this, at all."

"I know." She wasn't sure if Jonas was commiserating or simply trying to placate her. She was too tired to ask for clarification.

The door opened again—Jess and Jonas turned in unison to see Scott O'Donnell enter, followed by Dawson and Eden.

"What'd you find?" The words were out of Jess' mouth before everyone was fully in the room.

"One thing at a time, Keller," Dawson informed her. He glanced over at his English teammate, "Jude, you'll be handling Rossi this time."

"Right-O. Shall I go in now?"

He nodded, waving her off slightly. Eden slipped back out the door.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Jonas asked quietly.

Dawson answered that question with a look which invited no further commentary. He shifted closer to Keller, turning his attention to the interview room. He made a small noise when he saw Rossi's placement.

O'Donnell noted it as well, quietly stepping closer to the glass as he intoned, "A guilty man trying to hide his reactions?"

"Let's not set the cart before the horse. The only thing he's guilty of right now is being a smartass," Dawson stated.

"And he hasn't been hiding that in the least," Shostakovich added. Keller glanced over at him, her eyebrow lifting in the slightest hint of incredulity ( _and you're one to talk, Joe_ ).

The studied way in which he ignored her silent comment only widened her smirk.

The door to the interview room opened easily and SSA Judith Eden entered with an air of nonchalance that was a complete turn-around from her manner when she'd first arrived back at the Academy. Scott O'Donnell knew that was why there'd been a pause in-between her disappearance into the hall and her reappearance in the interview room—she'd been bolstering herself up, getting back into the right frame of mind for what would certainly be a delicate and trying interview.

Though he had to admit, her current demeanor didn't seem entirely appropriate, given the severity of the circumstances.

"It'll be just a few minutes—Agent Dawson had a quick phone call to take," Eden offered a friendly smile as she closed the door behind her, tossing a notepad on the table with casual flippancy. Her smile turned into something slightly more amused when she realized that he was sitting in what should have been her seat, but she never commented on it. She merely sat down across from him, pulling her knee up to her chest in a child-like fashion, "Though I do have a bit of a pressing question: where is the best place to order Chinese?"

"What the hell is she doing?" O'Donnell asked quietly, truly perplexed.

"Being herself," Agent Keller returned, her tone so impossibly neutral that he couldn't tell if her statement was a compliment or a critique.

* * *

In the next room, David Rossi was equally unsettled. He looked at Judith Eden as if she'd grown a second head.

"I ask in all seriousness," she assured him, her dark eyes twinkling in playful amusement. "We'll have to order in for dinner and I _refuse_ to have yet another pizza—which is exactly what we'll have if Jack has his way. Don't get me wrong, I like pizza just as much as the next, but there's something to be said for some small dash of variety in life."

Rossi gave a small sympathetic hum of amusement—he understood life on the road, stuck in police departments or hotel rooms, ordering take-out more than a person should, putting your physical health in the same precarious almost-shambles as your mental state and your personal life.

"I can't say there's a whole lot to choose from when it comes to places that will deliver out here," he admitted sadly, to which she gave a commiserating hum of understanding.

"Yes, it is a bit…out of the way, I suppose," she smiled again, the same relaxed amusement that made her seem like she was merely sitting down for a nice cup of tea instead of an interrogation (it was the accent, which she used to her advantage, playing it like a flute, using it to make herself seem in turns cold and austere or warm and darling). "But surely there's at least one."

"I think Little Palace delivers out here," he squinted slightly as he tried to remember.

"Are they any good?"

"Depends on what you order." David gave a shrug. "Their General Tso's isn't spicy enough for my tastes, but they've got some good crab rangoon."

"I do so love crab rangoon," Eden leaned forward with another smile, this one close-mouthed but so wide that her eyes became slits. "Now tell me, did Spencer Reid ever indicate that he was going to bomb the main building?"

* * *

" _Life is nothing but surprises. Even our tragedies turn out different than we expect."_ _  
_ _~Marty Rubin_ _._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: I want to take a moment to say a heartfelt thank you to everyone who took the time to review/add/follow/favorite this story's prequel—here's to hoping you've enjoyed the beginning of its sequel. More to come soon and happy reading!***_


	5. The Widening Gyre

**The Widening Gyre**

" _Always trust your gut. It knows what your head hasn't figured out yet."_

 _~Unknown._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: This is specifically directed to FCOL, reviewing as a guest—your reasoning for not having an account is something I've honestly never considered, but that totally makes sense to me. Thanks for pointing that out. As stated in my first author's note, I generally don't have an issue with guest reviews, except for when they do make comments or ask questions that require an answer and are posted as reviews on**_ _ **completed**_ _ **works, meaning I can't address them in author's notes in future chapters, as I am currently doing with your response (I actually went back and amended my original note to emphasize that my ONLY issue is specifically with guest reviews on completed works that require feedback). As previously stated, I'm not trying to bash anyone, and it wasn't my intention to imply that every person who comments as a guest is simply trolling. But I have received a few anonymous reviews that were of a trollish nature over the years—I try to leave up all the reviews, positive and critical, because that's part of the process, but this past story was the first time I've actually had to delete a review because the commentary had nothing to do with the actual story and was rather directed at me personally (which is utterly ridiculous, when you think about it). Hence my trolling comment.**_

 _ **Let me be very clear: there's nothing wrong with critical reviews. One of my favorite reviews was one that completely**_ _ **eviscerated**_ _ **the piece I'd written, because it made me a better writer and a stronger researcher. Critiques are part of how we writers learn and improve. So long as they're kept in the right spirit and not turned into some kind of bash against the writer as a person—and I think that's a point we can all agree on.**_

 _ **And yes, actually—putting a name to a guest review really does help! It helps me keep track of who's asking what and who's having questions. For example, if I get 5 anonymous reviews over the course of the story discussing a misunderstanding/dislike of a certain character or plot line, that may not be indicative of anything. They could all be from the same person, and that could simply mean that I'm not their kind of writer (it happens—we all have read writers whose narrative style simply doesn't "work" for us)—but if those reviews are from 5 different people (or even 3 different people), then that's an indication that there is an issue with how I'm telling this story, and that I need to take a closer look at my technique. So leaving some kind of identifying factor in a guest review greatly helps me, in terms of charting feedback and thereby gauging my own effectiveness, if that makes sense.**_

 _ **And thank you again for showing me a side of the situation that I hadn't even realized. Perspective always helps.***_

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

A bomb could have exploded right over David Rossi's head, and he would've been less surprised. He stopped, blinked, leaned forward slightly, one brow quirking downward in suspicious disbelief, as if he no longer recognized the woman seated in front of him, as if Judith Eden had somehow transformed into an alien. Judging from their previous interactions, SSA Eden had been nothing but fond of Spencer Reid, and now she was accusing him of terrorism.

"Reid? You really think _Reid_ could've had anything to do with this?" He was still frowning, still trying to make out whatever riddle had just been given to him.

Eden seemed almost relieved at his reaction—and in truth, she was. He gave the genuine response of someone innocent, someone who had no possible idea.

Her dark eyes flicked to the glass pane behind Agent Rossi. She kept her mouth slightly open, as if she were somehow still tethered to her previous question, which hung in the air like a balloon. She touched her tongue to the right corner of her mouth.

* * *

"He's telling the truth," Dawson decreed from the other side of the glass. Jude had always been his best reader when it came to body language, and they'd developed a silent communication of their own—shifting her head down and cocking her chin to the left meant the person was lying, looking at him and gently tapping her tongue to the right corner of her lips meant the person was telling the truth. It was more subtle than tugging an ear or wiping her brow, and she always made sure to mask it into her body language—there had even been times when it had seemed so natural that Jack had almost missed the cue itself.

"So, what do we do now?" Scott O'Donnell asked, glancing around at the other people in the room. "Let him go?"

"He's shocked at the idea of Dr. Reid being implicated—that doesn't mean that he doesn't know who the real bomber is," Jessalyn Keller pointed out quietly, arms still crossed over her chest as she kept her focus on the occupants in the other room.

"Or that he isn't the real bomber himself," Jonas added. He felt everyone shift back towards him, and he glanced around, holding his hands up in protest, "I'm just saying—if you put him up against Spencer Reid, David Rossi was way more motive than Dr. Reid. As does Agent Hotchner, for that matter. I'm trying to keep an open mind and let the facts fall where they may, but this…this scenario just isn't logical, not to me, not by any stretch of my imagination. It just doesn't fit."

Dawson gave a heavy sigh, "Until about an hour ago, I would've completely agreed with you. But I saw the evidence with my own eyes, Jonas. These are the facts, and when the facts don't fit, you have to change your parameters. But you can't change the facts."

Jonas turned his attention back to the interview room, his voice barely audible as he quietly declared, "Unless the facts aren't really facts."

O'Donnell was momentarily focused on Jessalyn Keller—in the dimly-lit viewing room, the features of her face seemed flawless, washed in the faint glow emanating through the one-way mirror. However, it wasn't her beauty that was holding his attention (though, he could very easily admit that if this were a different time and place, that beauty would be more than enough to command his gaze), but rather the expression on her face. She was looking at Dawson as if she didn't recognize him.

However, unlike Judith Eden, Keller didn't go head-to-head with her superior officer whenever she obviously disagreed. Instead, she merely turned her attention back to the interview room, though the look of mild bewilderment never fully left her face.

Scott wondered what the hell that meant—as if he didn't have enough things to worry about.

* * *

 _ **Benjamin Fuller's House. Rural Virginia.**_

"That's the last of it?" Adelaide Macaraeg surveyed the room again, making sure that nothing had been missed—they'd packed the entire library into plastic evidence tubs, taking painstaking care to make sure that everything stayed in the order that it had been on the shelves and that each tub had been marked appropriately so that they could rebuild the entire library in its correct order back at the evidence lab. It might have been an exercise in pointlessness, depending on whether or not the order somehow revealed a clue, but it was better safe than sorry.

"Yes'm," answered the tech who'd been photo-documenting the site, whom she'd learned was named Marvin (really, was there any better name for a techie than Marvin?). At first, he'd been a bit uncertain that there was a method to her madness, but after all the time they'd spent in this tiny house together, they'd inevitably bonded and now he understood that Mac didn't give an order without a damn good reason, and he respected that.

She gave a curt of approval, taking one last turn around the room to make sure nothing obvious had been left behind. Once she was satisfied, she performed a similar scout of the bedroom and hallway—the living room and kitchen still had items to be processed, but in the relatively short hours they'd been here, they'd worked quickly for such a small crew. Of course, everyone knew how important it was to have this evidence collected, processed, and analyzed—the rest of the crew perhaps even more so than Mac, since it was their home office that had been bombed, their friends and colleagues lying in hospital beds or on slabs at the morgue, their sense of safety and rightness that had been ripped away.

She wandered back into the library, staring ahead with unseeing eyes as her mind mulled over the same detail that had been bothering her for hours now. They still hadn't found the key for Fuller's desk, which should have been locked. It was a small thing, perhaps an inconsequential detail (maybe he never locked the desk, maybe he'd lost the key years ago), but still, it nagged at the back of her mind. She didn't like leaving things undone or unknown.

"Marvin," she called the young tech back into the library.

"Yeah?" He lumbered down the hallway, his face lined with cautious curiosity.

"Bring the camera back in here. I want detailed photos of this lock," she pointed to the bottom drawer of the desk. "Every angle, every aspect—even the part of the mechanism that's attached to the rest of the desk. Once you've documented it, I want the drawer to come back with us as well."

"Oh…kay," his confusion was screamingly evident, but he didn't question her decision.

She set her hands on her hips for a moment, simply staring at the desk. She could be wrong, but at least she wouldn't lie awake at night, wondering if she'd missed something by not inspecting the unlocked drawer further.

Her cellphone went off as she was heading back down the hall. She saw Masterson's name on her caller ID, so she answered with, "How's it going up there?"

When she'd left, Jeff Masterson and Rowena Lewis had been continuing their slog through the chaos of the blast site.

"It's gone," he informed her easily. "We were calling to say we've just bagged and tagged the last of it."

"Really?" She couldn't help but be impressed. Between the three of them, they'd tackled a bomb site in less than three days, and they'd won. Granted, they also hadn't really had a decent night's sleep, either, but still.

"Yep. Roe's getting ready to take it all down to the lab," he added. There was an indistinct mumble from Agent Lewis, and given the tone, it was obvious that she wasn't relishing the trip. Knowing those two, they'd probably made a bet, which Rowena had lost. And also knowing those two, Jeff would still help her take the evidence downstairs, and probably end up carrying most of the stuff anyways.

"Well, good work. I have to say, that's faster than I expected."

"We weren't calling just to brag," his tone was laced with slight amusement. "We wanted to know if you needed a couple of extra hands out there."

In that moment, Adelaide Macaraeg felt a swell of gratitude for her team. This was her first time out in the field since being transferred and promoted to unit chief, and that had brought its own dose of trepidation at what she would discover—and she couldn't be happier with the results. Roe and Jeff, who were hailed as the best of the unit, had earned their titles rightfully. They were hardworking, determined, and most importantly, they were able to keep a relatively positive demeanor, given the darkness of the work they did and the sights they saw. She couldn't have asked for more.

And here they were, after the second day of crawling around through debris with tweezers, offering to come help on the next scene. Mac knew that part of it stemmed from a true desire to help where they could—but some of it came from a desire to help their friends in the BAU, too.

Which was why she couldn't allow them to be here.

"I think we're good here," she informed him, stopping in the living room to glance around and reassure herself of that statement's veracity. "By the time you guys drop off the rest of the evidence, get your gear, and drive out here, we'd already be wrapped up. So why don't you two finish up at Quantico and then head back to the hotel to get some sleep?"

"Don't have to tell me twice," he joked, though his tone was tinged with relief. Quietly, he asked, "So, didja find anything?"

She had to answer that question very carefully, "Oh, lots of things. Whether or not they're useful things, only time will tell—which is why I need you and Lewis to get some rest. We'll need to look at it with fresh eyes in the morning."

She didn't tell him about Reid, for the same reason she didn't let them come to Fuller's house. Let them have one last night of good sleep, one last night of believing that the people they knew couldn't be capable of such a thing, one last night in a world that seemed as close to balanced and just as their world could be.

The truth could shatter those beliefs in the morning. But for tonight, it could rest.

* * *

 _ **The Hotchner House. Suburbs outside Washington, D.C.**_

Jack Hotchner was halfway through his recitation of the Gettysburg Address when his father's phone rang—and on cue, he immediately stopped, looking at his father with expectant eyes as he waited for Aaron to answer it.

Aaron pushed down a wave of self-hatred at the realization that his nine-year-old son had been inadvertently trained to stop and shush whenever Aaron's work pushed its way into their lives—and he hated himself even more for how quickly he answered the call.

"This is SSA Hotchner." He didn't recognize the number, but it was a D.C. area code and there were very few people who would be calling him at this hour—all of whom were Bureau personnel.

"Agent Hotchner?" An unfamiliar female voice wavered on the other end of the line. "I'm—I'm not sure you'll remember me—I'm Jordan Strauss, Erin Strauss' daughter. We've met, a few times—"

"Yes, of course." Aaron didn't remind her that the last time they'd seen each other, it had been when he'd offered his condolences at her mother's graveside. Or that he was already well aware of the role she'd played in the fiasco this afternoon which had left two of his agents in temporary custody.

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't be calling if it—have you heard, already?" Her voice was disjointed, her thoughts obviously muddled.

"What's happened?" Aaron glanced over at his son again, who was watching him with rapt interest. Jack was currently bedecked in an attempt at Lincoln-esque dress—in his own black slacks (such a young boy, to have such dark and formal clothes—sadder still to know how often he used them) and his dad's white button-down, the collar popped up to accommodate a black tie that had been hap-hazardously turned into a bow-tie, his father's black vest and black suit coat completing the look. In lieu of a stovepipe hat, there was a black bowler that Aaron honestly couldn't remember ever wearing or even buying. He'd briefly wondered if it had been part of the theatre costuming that Haley had kept over the years, though he couldn't think of why it would be in there—or how Jack had come across it.

"Spencer's been taken into custody."

Aaron felt a measure of relief—of course he already knew. Mateo Cruz had informed him about the decision to keep Rossi and Reid at Quantico until the whole mess with Linnea Donovan Charles was sorted out. He fought back the urge to point out that the only reason they were in custody was because of Jordan Strauss, who'd brought the situation to their attention in the first place. However, he kindly refrained.

"Reid's just being held until they can confirm a few things about Linnea," he informed her, keeping his tone low and calm, though he was too tired to infuse any kind of warmth or gentleness (because again, if she'd just told Linnea to go to the FBI instead of taking to the wind, Reid wouldn't be in custody—it was hard to feign sympathy for the person responsible for current events).

"No, no—he was already being held. I'm saying that now, he's under arrest."

"Under arrest?" Hotch sat up slightly, unsure of what was happening.

"Yeah. That means they've found something, right? Something bad?"

Hotch was on his feet now, moving into the kitchen. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, but he was too sucked into the moment—he didn't like where this was heading, and he had to give it his full attention. "How do you know this?"

If Spencer Reid were under arrest, his first call should have been to Aaron Hotchner.

"I—uh, you know, I probably shouldn't say—"

"To be perfectly honestly, that would apply to this entire conversation, Miss Strauss. But we're already here and we're already having it, so you might as well tell me everything you know and how you came to know it." Aaron was gone; SSA Hotchner was out in full force.

And it worked. Jordan Strauss answered quickly, like a schoolgirl chastised for forgetting her homework. "Dora Carrington, Chief Cruz's assistant. She called me and told me that she saw someone arresting Spencer Reid."

"Did she say who or what for?"

"No. She knew who it was, but she said I wouldn't know them. And she—oh, please don't think badly of her—"

"Jordan."

"Right. I'm sorry. I just—"

" _Jordan_. I understand that you're feeling a lot of conflicting emotions right now—but I need you to understand that if what you think's happening really is happening, then I need to know everything you know, and as quickly as possible."

"Right, right, of course—she said Spencer wasn't in handcuffs. But she did—she listened in on what was being said. And it sounded like he was being arrested. She said they took him to interrogation. She knew that she shouldn't say anything, but she called me anyways."

Hm. Carrington's quickness to confide in Jordan Strauss implied a closeness that deserved some scrutiny, but at another time. Hotch continued his questioning, "And that's all she knew?"

"Yes. She knows there has to be more, so I told her to wait around and talk to Chief Cruz—he didn't tell her anything, other than they'd found something at the UNSUB's house."

He took a millisecond to file away the fact that Jordan Strauss also knew proper behavioral analysis terminology.

Jordan continued, "But when she pressed Cruz for more details—well, he specifically didn't mention Spencer, which makes it seem…kinda _odd_. Like they're hiding it, for some reason."

"Has she told anyone else?"

"No. And neither have I—I tried calling Dave, but he isn't answering. So you were the next logical choice—if anyone can help Spencer, it's you."

"How'd you get my number?" This wasn't a necessary detail, but a source of curiosity, nonetheless.

A slight pause. "Mom's cellphone. I…I still have it. Just in case, I guess."

He heard the almost-apology in her voice, and he understood it—in grief, the most mundane of items could become sacred objects. You held onto them, nurtured them, made up excuses for their continued existence in your life, anything other than admitting the simple fact that they were once touched by your lost loved one and you were desperate for any part of them, whether it was a cellphone or a favorite CD or even a kitchen mixer that you never used, but it had been your wife's Christmas gift eight years ago and she'd been so happy over a damn mixer that you couldn't bring yourself to give it away.

Instinctively, his gaze flicked over to the kitchen cabinet, where an aqua-blue mixer rested. Yes, he understood. Though in Jordan's case, at least her token had proven useful.

Unsure of what the silence might mean, Jordan Strauss pressed forward, "I'm sorry—I know I probably shouldn't have called, but—Spencer's a friend. A really good friend. I didn't know what else to do."

Aaron glanced back into the living room, where Jack was still patiently waiting.

"I should probably inform you that you're actively interfering in a federal investigation." He didn't add the _yet again_ , but his tone implied it well enough. However, his voice softened as he added, "But I must admit, I'm glad you did."

"What are you going to do?" Suddenly Jordan Strauss sounded very young. Very young and very afraid.

"I don't know yet," he admitted easily. Keeping his tone as neutral as possible, he added, "However, I think it's time that you remove yourself from the investigation. The federal government doesn't look too kindly upon civilians running rings around them and blowing over their house of cards while obstructing the course of justice."

"Yeah, I know," she sounded sheepish, almost embarrassed ( _almost_ ). Aaron Hotchner had a general idea of Jordan's personality, and he was fairly sure that even though her actions were obviously outside the color of the law, she saw herself as helping the course of justice, rather than hindering it.

"But before you do, I suggest you convince Linnea Charles to contact the FBI and tell them everything she knows."

"I…I would if I could." Jordan took a deep, unsteady breath. "But I haven't heard from her in hours…I've called, left voicemails, texts—nothing."

On a good day, this would seem suspicious. On a day like today, it seemed downright ominous.

"I'll see what I can do to help find her," he promised. Jordan murmured another string of thanks before hanging up.

Aaron Hotchner was already dialing Mrs. Gregg, the neighbor across the street whose son also happened to be a year older than Jack—they were both on the same soccer team, and Aaron often switched out carpooling duties with her on the weekends.

She answered on the second ring—the din in the background informed him that the rest of the Gregg family were still happily installed around the dinner table.

"Hey, Aaron, what's up?"

"Alice, I have a favor to ask—something's come up on a very important case—"

"The bombing?" She supplied. He'd forgotten that everyone in the United States knew about it by now, thanks to the media.

"Yeah. I know it's—"

"Say no more. Just grab Jack's PJs and bring him over." Her tone was warm, filled with reassuring camaraderie.

"Thank you."

"Oh, trust me, this isn't a freebie—the team wants to go to the arcade after their next game. Guess who just got himself volunteered as the chaperone for that little outing?" He knew that she was grinning.

"Deal," he allowed himself a little smile too. Honestly, he would have volunteered anyways. "I'll, um, pack his lunch for school and bring it along—you can just put it in the fridge til tomorrow morning, just in case I'm not back in time."

"Sure thing, Aaron." Now her tone was laced with pity. However, she quickly infused it with false cheer, "I'll let Elias know that he's having a sleepover tonight."

"Thank you, Alice."

"You're welcome. See ya in a little bit."

By now, Jack had shuffled into the kitchen, the sleeves of his father's coat swaying just past his knees (once there was a time when those sleeves would have been dragging the floor—when had he gotten so tall?). His childish face was matured by his look of serious calm.

"Ya gotta go?" It was a question, but there was no doubt in Jack's eyes.

"I do." Aaron felt his heart break a little bit more at the confession. He sighed, wrapping his son into a hug. It never got easier. "You're gonna spend the night at Elias' house."

Jack's hand rubbed comforting circles on his dad's back—and again, Aaron felt a pang of regret at realizing that his son was also accustomed to comforting him over his guilt.

Aaron sat back slightly, forcing a smile, "Look, we've got a few minutes to get our things together. So why don't you start from the top, and give me the full Gettysburg Address while I make your lunch for tomorrow?"

Jack smiled in agreement. Then, with a heave-ho, Aaron lifted his son onto the kitchen counter (a feat not nearly as easy as it used to be), where he could stand as if on a stage, addressing his father and the rest of the imaginary audience below. Jack readjusted his bowler hat and held out his hands in a dramatic fashion.

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal…"

He continued onward, and Aaron continued putting together his son's lunch, occasionally helping him with the pronunciation of a difficult word. For the briefest of moments, they were just like any other family.

It took every ounce of Aaron Hotchner's focus and determination not to start making phone calls or to simply speed off to Quantico—but it was a sacrifice he had to make for his son. As much as he cared for Spencer Reid, he wouldn't allow Jack's memories to be filled with only his father's rush to be anywhere but with him.

However, the second he'd dropped off his son and was back in his vehicle, he was calling David Rossi's number.

It went straight to voicemail. He didn't bother leaving a message.

He took a moment to mentally catalogue his team's home addresses—he'd call them in order of who lived farthest away. That way they'd all be able to arrive at Quantico at relatively the same time.

Which meant JJ was first.

There was a slight pang as reality returned and he remembered that JJ wasn't on the case. He needed to call Will again—it had been hours since he last checked in, and he didn't want JJ's husband to feel as if they'd forgotten about him. They were a family, and that's what families did. They rallied.

Next on the mental map was Kate Callahan.

"What's happened?" She sounded as if she'd been waiting for this call.

"I'm not entirely sure yet. But I think you need to get to Quantico."

* * *

" _Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;_

 _Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world."_

 _~William Butler Yeats._


	6. Like Water Through Open Fingers

**Like Water Through Open Fingers**

" _Time and people have a way of slipping away."_

 _~Susan Gale._

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

 _The day, the day, it's slipping away. The time and its hours, all blown astray. The day, the day, still slipping, always away…._

He should have been counting the minutes. His mind was too fuzzy, flitting and flipping and whirling from one illogical thought to the next.

Terrorism. Him. It was real—the look on Keller's face informed him that this wasn't just some twisted joke, some mistake.

Well, obviously it was a mistake. But the people who'd put him in this room didn't think so—and that was the dangerous part.

He should have been counting the minutes. He was in too much shock at first—he'd let Keller pat him down, he'd heard the charges and the usual litany of the Miranda warning, he'd followed them down the hallway to this room, though he couldn't recall his feet actually touching the ground. He'd floated, and not in the pleasant, dreamy way one usually imagines when using such a phrase—no, he'd floated like a ghost, like a dead man, like an ill wind.

But the moment they'd closed the door to this room, he should have started counting. He should have paid very close attention to how long it took them to rally the troops, to build the defense, to dig up old dirt.

Timing was everything.

Problem was, he couldn't say if it had been fifteen minutes or fifty.

All he could think about was how this had happened, how he—Spencer Reid, a man who'd spent most of his life and his entire career at the FBI—was now seen as the Bureau's greatest enemy.

He shouldn't frame it like that. Made him sound like John Curtis. Goodness knows there were already enough comparisons between the Replicator and the current UNSUB, whom people seemed to currently think was actually him.

He'd built the profile. He'd helped. He'd done everything he could—he'd even opened up the wounds surrounding Maeve, had pried open his personal life like a clam for greedy gulls, letting them stick their noses into parts of his life that should have been his alone.

The evidence had to be there. It had to be good—almost water-tight ( _almost_ , because it was a lie, and all lies leak, even the best ones). It had to be convincing enough to people like Dawson, who'd seen enough of the world to know a fake, even a good fake.

Photographs? Some kind of photoshopped…something? Curtis had taken surveillance photos of the team. If this UNSUB was following the same pattern….

 _The day, the day, it's slipping away…_

He needed to sleep. He'd been too worried about JJ, about Henry, about everyone. He'd told himself that he'd curl up with a nice long book and recharge himself once the case was over.

He'd have plenty of time to read in prison.

He couldn't think like that. Dour humor was good in most dark situations, but now wasn't the time for cracking jokes—he needed to be cracking this case, finding the leak, pulling it wider apart.

He should have been counting the minutes. It was all slipping away.

 _Slipping away_. The UNSUB had felt as if everything was slipping away too—he was a coward, but a coward trying to take back some sense of control and assurance and courage. But control over what?

Linnea. She was part of this—or maybe she wasn't. Maybe it was sheer dumb luck that she'd gotten sucked into this.

Except Spencer didn't think luck was dumb at all—or that Linnea's involvement really bent towards the lucky category.

Linnea. Maeve. The bombing. _Maeve dies, Spencer cries, Linnea writes the papers…_

Someone reached out to Linnea, pretending to be Spencer. Out of a supposed connection—except that had been a mistake, because Linnea and Spencer had never met before. He'd gone to Maeve's funeral, but hadn't spoken to anyone. It hadn't felt right, introducing himself, pushing himself into the lives of her family during the darkest moment of their grief.

And who would think he'd be stupid enough to reach out to someone who could so easily be connected back to him?

 _God complex—the UNSUB doesn't expect to be caught_. Maybe there was something to it—it could be misconstrued that Spencer intentionally contacted his former love's sister, believing that even when their true connection surfaced, he'd already be long gone.

 _Reynard the Fox, always eluding the snare…_

Except he wasn't gone. He'd come back. He'd come back to help.

 _To truly help, or tempt fate? To prove your innocence, or test the intelligence of the other investigators?_

He was interrogating himself, trying to answer the questions that would surely be asked of him.

 _But don't have everything figured out—it'll look too simple, too easy, too planned—and that will only make them suspect you more. Having an answer for everything implies that you knew it would hit long before it actually did._

Well, no problem there, because he certainly didn't have an answer for everything—truly, he didn't have an answer for _anything_.

 _Think. Think about Curtis. Not just why he did it, but what he did…_

Phone calls, letters—taunts in the open. Photographs, surveillance—stalking in the shadows. Shards of glass with fingerprints, letters laced with poison—traps built in the cleverest of ways.

But it all unraveled. It always unraveled.

Not always. The Zodiac got away. Jack the Ripper got away. Dozens upon dozens of monsters slipped past the best of minds.

 _Can't think like that. Can't allow the possibilities to even surface._

Innocent people went to prison every day. He could become a statistic, too.

 _Fifteen or fifty? Take a guess, Doctor. How long has it been?_

 _Focus. What's this guy's motive? Why you? Everyone has a reason—even if they don't know they have a reason._ That was another lesson Gideon had taught him. Spencer suddenly felt a tug of longing for his old mentor—if Gideon were still here, he'd have already busted down the door, bellowing in protest at the absolute outrage of even _considering_ that Spencer Reid would do such a thing (then again, that might be one of the reasons that Gideon wasn't a federal agent anymore—poor impulse control wasn't exactly something that got you promoted or showered with praise).

The UNSUB didn't seem to be targeting the rest of the team—aside from the bomb being sent to the entire BAU. The latest developments all seemed to be directly aimed at him.

So why? Was it some "master-mind" that he'd outwitted on a previous case? No, it was an inside job…someone he'd made look less-than-stellar on some joint case? It didn't seem likely—yes, he was good at his job, but he always made sure never to rub his intelligence into other people's faces (unless they were being jerks and completely deserved a good verbal lashing). He couldn't remember a single encounter in the last few years that would have been categorized as _hostile_ —the team spent so much time on the road that he hardly had time to learn the names of the people on the sixth floor, much less meet, work with, and somehow insult one of them.

And how would this person know about Maeve?

That was the big question.

And whatever the answer was, it certainly wasn't by coincidence.

He needed Penelope. Really, he needed his whole team. But Penelope's skills would definitely be needed, first and foremost.

There it was—the logical way to look at it. Deconstruct the issue, take it apart like the alarm clock in his bedroom when he was seven (his mother hadn't been too pleased about that, though she'd taken him out for ice cream when he'd figured out how to put it back together again). Take each piece, assign it to the proper section—or in this case, the proper teammate.

Penelope was the easiest place to start. She could tap her little magic fingers across her keyboard and find things that no one else even knew existed. So what would he assign to her?

The email. By far the most obvious, and the most pressing. It was supposedly sent from his phone, from his standard Bureau account (which he almost never used—he couldn't even remember the last time he'd sent an email). Find out where it came from, really, and perhaps who sent it. And exactly when it was sent—he wasn't a technophile, but he knew emails could be set on delay, actually sending at a later time. Morgan had tried to show him how to do it, once. He'd been reading a book and not even remotely pretending to pay attention.

His cellphone. He needed to find it now—what was once merely something lost in the heat of the moment now became a crucial piece of evidence.

His train of thought skittered for a moment—he'd lost it (or at least realized that it was lost) when he'd gotten into the ambulance with JJ. He needed to be with her now. He needed to be with Henry now. He needed everyone to realize his innocence as quickly as possible, so that he could get back to doing more important things, like taking care of his family.

Family. Linnea. Maeve. Who could have known?

* * *

"So tell me how you know Maeve Donovan." Judith Eden's tone was back into conversational territory, as if she hadn't just batted David Rossi around like an insane cat with a mouse.

"Tell me how that's relevant to this investigation," Rossi shot back coolly, crossing his arms over his chest. He'd been answering Eden's questions, round and round, the same questions with the same answers, but this was the first mention of Maeve—and despite his desire to prove his innocence, he still needed to shield Spencer from any further damage that could come from pulling apart the one corner of his life that he'd so diligently tried to keep private.

Eden merely grinned ( _still on the ball, I see_ ). Her tone was teasingly chiding, "Now, Agent Rossi, this isn't my first rodeo—nor is it yours, not by half. We both know that _I'm_ supposed to be the one asking the questions, and you're supposed to answer them."

He simply stared blankly back at her.

"Ah, I see we've reached an impasse," she shifted in her seat, her words dripping with feigned concern. "So I guess it means that it is my turn to start spilling what I know. Fine, then, I'll play by your rules—but I can't promise you'll like what you get."

The man didn't even move a single muscle in response.

Eden leaned forward, planting her elbows firmly on the table, her once-jovial expression dropping like a mask to reveal a face of pure determination. Her voice pushed lower, becoming colder and more forceful as she shot out the next words with the precision of a sniper. "You knew Maeve Donovan—maybe not well, but you still knew her, through your colleague Dr. Spencer Reid. You knew Dr. Reid's true feelings for her, and the nature of their relationship. When Maeve was murdered, you took care of the funeral arrangements, but you did it all in Spencer's name—because you cared about Maeve, because more importantly, you care about Spencer Reid. You know what it's like to lose your first love, and regardless of whether you've actually ever admitted it, even to yourself, you see Reid as some kind of son. And you, my dear, are a very good father—you tried to help him, you tried to give him some sense of closure, and now you're trying to shield him from the consequences of his actions—"

"I'm trying to shield him for being unjustly prosecuted as a goddamn terrorist!" Rossi retorted hotly. "And the fact that you can even sit here, with a straight face and blatantly claim—"

"Like I said, Agent Rossi—I can't promise you'll like what you get when you let me do all the talking," she was grinning like a Cheshire cat now. She held open her hands in a magnanimous gesture, "Are you willing to set the record straight?"

* * *

On the other side of the glass, Scott O'Donnell set his hands on his hips again. Haltingly, he ventured the question, "Agent Eden…she's—unconventional, isn't she?"

Keller gave a light snort of amusement. Shostakovich turned to look over his shoulder at O'Donnell, slowly intoning, "Yeah, you could say that."

"But if we all know that Rossi's telling the truth—he truly doesn't believe that Reid is the UNSUB—why are we wasting our time with this line of questioning?" O'Donnell glanced over at Dawson. "What does it matter?"

"It matters," was Dawson's only reply.

* * *

"Yes, Reid loved Maeve. Yes, a loss like that—especially in that way—has the potential to send anyone to the looney bin, or at least turn them into a very broken and bitter individual." Now David Rossi was leaning in, his hands practically touching Eden's as he continued explaining, his voice low and quick. "But Spencer Reid isn't just anyone. He is the exception to every rule, in the best of ways. Heartache and disappointment are part and parcel of his entire existence, and he's never let it wreck him—if anything, it's made him even _more_ hopeful and optimistic. I know that isn't always the side of him that you see, but it's always there, just below the surface. He would never hurt another human being—wouldn't even _consider_ hurting somebody—just to make himself feel better. He's not the kind of man, never has been, never will be. He's one of the good guys—one of the best."

When he looked into Judith Eden's big brown eyes, he found them shimmering with unshed tears.

"Explain the email to Linnea Charles," she demanded, her tone impossibly neutral. With a single blink, the tears disappeared.

"Someone setting him up."

"And refusing to cooperate with the order to hand over his cellphone the morning of the bombing? And then subsequently losing the phone in question while dashing past the security cordon against orders—"

"He was going to check on his friend—don't act as if you wouldn't do the exact same thing if it was one of your teammates who'd just survived a fall down an elevator shaft—"

"You're avoiding the actual question, Agent Rossi. Were those actions someone also setting Dr. Reid up?"

"It was a traumatic situation. Sometimes we react to stress—"

"And today, when he discouraged the analysts from searching out the bomb-making materials, was that a reaction to stress or merely someone setting him up again?"

"Neither. That was using some damned logic to know that it would be impossible—"

"And what if there was a note, in his handwriting, with a list of places to buy those materials?"

"What?"

"What if he'd written down the places to purchase the items needed for TATP, and he knew that if the analysts looked long enough, they'd find the evidence they needed to link him or his accomplice to the crime?"

"You're serious," Rossi sat back, floored by this revelation.

She mimicked his actions, sitting back in her own chair as she crossed her arms over her chest. "If I wasn't, it'd sure be a helluva bluff."

He sized her up. She simply returned his scrutiny.

"You'd better send that to a handwriting analyst," he informed her.

She forced a smile, one that was better described as merely pulling back the muscles around her face. "So glad you're able to donate your invaluable investigatory skills to the case, Agent Rossi. Having only been in the FBI myself for almost two decades, I would have never even _considered_ such an idea."

Jesus, it was exactly something Erin Strauss would say. He pushed down his irritation and focused on the conversation at hand, "I promise you, unless the person who wrote the note is a world-class forger, your analyst will prove it's a fake."

"Either the analyst will confirm it's a fake, or it will simply be such a good fake that it will fool the analyst," Eden gave a genuinely amused smile now. "Interesting—even now, you can't even contemplate the idea that Spencer Reid could actually be guilty."

"Because he isn't."

"Well," she suddenly leaned forward, offered one last winning smile, and rose to her feet, snatching up her notepad, which she hadn't even used. "I suppose that's it then, Agent Rossi. Sit tight a bit longer."

She exited the room.

A few seconds later, she reappeared in the viewing room, her demeanor transformed once again into a weary and worn woman.

"Whaddya think, boss?" Her only focus was on Jack Dawson, who was still watching David Rossi's back.

Dawson was silent for a moment. Then his cellphone buzzed. He took it out of his back pocket and glanced at the freshly-delivered text. "Roza has the two analysts from the Mobile Command Center here."

He glanced over at Scott O'Donnell, "We'll need somewhere to set them up for interviews."

"Of course," O'Donnell gave a curt nod and left the room.

"Jude, close the door," Dawson spoke quietly, but his voice easily filled the room. Jude did as she was told. Now the Flying Js' leader gave a heavy sigh, turning to lean against the one-way mirror.

"It is very important that everyone understands this: you cannot discuss this afterwards, even amongst yourselves. What I say next cannot leave this room."

* * *

 _ **Derek & Savannah's House. Washington, D.C.**_

"Jesus, Hotch, you gotta be kidding me."

Given the abrupt way that Derek Morgan practically jumped out of bed, Savannah Hayes was pretty sure that whatever he'd just learned wasn't good news. She rolled over, watching the shadows of the night ripple across her boyfriend's back as he leaned forward slowly, as if he'd been punched in the gut. Then he stopped, every muscle dead still.

No, not good news at all—the exact opposite, the very worst of news. She was sitting up, sliding across the bed to gently rest against his back, offering silent support in any way she could.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Derek promised before hanging up. He took a deep breath before informing her. "Spencer's under arrest. They're saying he's one of the people responsible for the bombing."

"Spencer—Spencer Reid?" Savannah tried to wrap her head around the thought. She hadn't spent a lot of time with the youngest member of the BAU team, but anyone who'd been around him for more than three minutes would swear upon a stack of bibles that he was the least likely person to ever do such a thing. "That's…that's ridiculous."

Derek was on his feet, moving around the room, gathering his clothes as he explained, "No, it's worse than that—it's downright scary. Because you see, the people investigating this thing—they're not ridiculous. They're smart—I mean, they do it by the book. They wouldn't arrest him if they didn't have damn good reason—and some damn solid proof. And _that_ is that part that scares me."

"Proof? How could they have proof?"

"I don't know." He whipped his long-sleeve shirt over his head. "But that means that this thing is way bigger than we first thought—and that is not a good thing."

"Please be careful."

"Of course," he leaned over to give her a quick kiss goodbye. "I've gotta go."

She merely nodded, watching him hurry down the hallway. She heard him shuffle around, putting on his boots, dragging his keys across the countertop, opening the door—the fear that rippled through her entire body with every single sound that took him farther and farther away from her, away from safety, was almost too much to bear. But the loneliness that seeped in after was even worse.

* * *

 _ **The LaMontagne House. Washington, D.C.**_

"What's happened, sir?" Penelope Garcia didn't bother with greetings because she knew that calls at this hour after a day like today were not about the weather—and certainly not when those calls came from her unit chief.

"It's Reid. He's been arrested in connection with the bombing." Hotch's voice was tight, barely contained—whether it was anger or fear or frustration or all three, Penelope wasn't sure.

"Hotch, you can't be serious." She knew he was, before the words even left her mouth. "Sorry—I mean, I know you are—I know you wouldn't call—oh, god, why?"

"I'm not sure yet. I only found out a few minutes ago myself."

"And the rest of the team?"

"They know. They're heading back to Quantico now."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I—I don't know yet. But someone has to be there, to physically be there to speak up for him."

Ah, there he was—her valiant knight, Sir Hotch.

"Give me half an hour—I'll be back at my place and ready to help." Why didn't she let Morgan bring her car to her earlier? This would be so much easier and so much quicker if she didn't have to wait for a cab.

"Where are you now?" Hotch seemed slightly confused.

"At JJ's. Watching Henry for the night."

"Penelope, you don't have to—"

"You and I both know full well that I do, sir. And we both know that you can't talk me out of it, so don't even waste time trying."

There was a slight sigh from Hotch before he quietly admitted, "I know I should protest, but I'd be lying if I said we didn't need you right now."

"I know," she couldn't even grin at the thought—it was too dangerous for that sort of thing. "Look, just give me a little bit—maybe forty minutes—and I'll be ready to do whatever I can."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet—thank me when this is all over and our good doctor is back where he belongs."

Penelope ended the call and hobbled down the hall on her crutch, to Henry's room, where the boy was hard at work on a Lego set. He probably should've been in bed hours ago, but the general rule of the house when Aunt Nelope was in charge was that all rules were off.

"Hey, Nenry," she pasted on her brightest smile. "How about a field trip to Aunt Nelope's?"

"What for?" He seemed eager to go, but still cautious—as if perhaps there was something wrong behind the reason for the trip (poor darling boy, he was too young to know how to sense danger, yet he had developed that skill over the short years of his life).

She forced every ounce of energy into her smile and her voice, keeping it light and cheerful, "For an adventure, of course."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Aaron Hotchner was rolling down the hallway of the Academy like a thunderhead, dark and full of pent-up frustration. The instant that Mateo Cruz saw him, the section chief knew that whatever happened next would not be pleasant.

"Why is Spencer Reid being charged with the bombing?" As usual, Hotchner was succinct and direct—both a relief and a source of fear, in Cruz's mind.

"How do you even know about that?" Cruz switched gears.

"That is the least of your concerns, I assure you," Hotchner's voice was quick, cutting with a forceful brutality that brooked no rebuttal. It was a side of the behavioral analyst that Cruz had seen a few times, but had never had directed at himself—and the new experience was not a welcome one.

"Agent Hotchner, you can't just come in here and cowboy up," Cruz pushed his own frustration in his words, allowing himself to brew up a good bout of righteous indignation—after all, he wasn't the one in the wrong on this one, not this time. "And you certainly can't expect us to just let you waltz in here and take over—because I simply won't allow it."

He had to put his foot down, remind his agent of his rank, his superiority—it wasn't a move that he relished, but still a necessary task.

Aaron Hotchner merely blinked. His body language didn't change in the slightest. However, Cruz got the distinct feeling that the normally-stoic unit chief was using every ounce of self-control to keep from going into an absolute rampage.

"You have one of my agents in custody for a federal crime. You can't expect me to sit back and do nothing, sir." Hotchner had schooled his tone into something less aggressive, but the undercurrent was still there, just beyond the surface of hearing.

In that moment, a line from one of Erin Strauss' BAU assessments sprung into Mateo Cruz's head— _The unit itself, while performing efficiently and clearing one of the highest closing rates of any department, is too personally entangled for comfort. Their unhealthy level of support for each other is not only a hindrance, but at times, a danger to their own safety._

That particular assessment had been written shortly after a clash between Chief Strauss and the BAU, and the general assumption was that she was trying to get them back for some perceived slight (no one said so, not aloud, and no one claimed that Erin Strauss was less-than-fair in her assessment, but the fact that the unit had never been broken up implied that the higher-ups deemed her statements to be inaccurate, or at least too small of an issue to truly worry about it). However, now her successor realized that her words weren't born out of sheer spite, but rather concern—they _were_ too close, and it was a danger, at times. Particularly now, when SSA Hotchner came barreling in, risking his career and his professional reputation over a piece of information that he technically shouldn't even know yet.

And still, Matt understood it all. He understood the bond of blood, the family forged from mutual tragedies, from moments shared in the darkest of times. He understood the need—the instinct, the push that went beyond mere desire, the pulsing, pounding, animalistically-clawing creature of _need_ —to protect and defend that family, especially against outsiders.

Cruz sighed heavily, shaking his head—he was much too tired to fight, not tonight. "Hotchner, I can't possibly have this conversation with you—"

"And I can assure you, you can't _not_ have this conversation," the BAU chief shot back, his voice filled with an aggravating certainty ( _I'm not going anywhere until I have answers_ ).

Clenching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, Cruz grimaced, finally ceding defeat as he admitted, "We have a suspect."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter—not really. The guy's dead. But he's got a ton of notebooks, Hotchner—and they're all filled with references to Spencer Reid."

"Was he a stalker?"

"No. It seems…." Cruz took a deep breath, looking Hotchner directly in the eye, "It looks like he was a collaborator."

"A collaborator?" Hotch blanched, stepping to the side slightly as if he'd become unsteady on his own two feet. He still watched his section chief with hawk-eyed intensity, "What are you saying, exactly?"

"The books…there is some pretty hard evidence that he and Reid knew each other—"

"It's a set-up. Obviously." Aaron shouldn't have added that last word, it came across as patronizing, dismissive. Still, he meant it.

"That was my gut-reaction, too."

 _Was_. Past tense. As in, Cruz's opinion had been changed.

"Look, Aaron, I shouldn't even be telling you this right now—" Cruz glanced over his shoulder, as if someone might pop up any minute and whisk him away for talking about it. He looked back at the unit chief, "This isn't your job. You shouldn't be here. There's nothing you can do. Let them figure it out—let them prove Agent Reid's innocence."

"Hard to prove what you don't believe," Hotch returned coolly. "If they've arrested him, it means they believe he's guilty of the crime—otherwise, they would have merely questioned him."

"Hotchner." Cruz clapped a hand on the man's shoulder, his eyes shining with earnestness. "I am begging you—leave. The only thing you can do is further damage this case—and don't think for a single second that I'm not going to find out how this leaked to you in the first place. But I've got other fires to put out tonight, and your presence is more like gasoline than water."

"Sir, I'm not leaving—and I should warn you, the rest of the team's on their way, too."

Cruz looked up at the ceiling, warring between the urge to shriek and the sudden desire to laugh like a madman.

"Of course they are, Hotchner. Of course they are."

"And I want to be there when you interview him."

"Excuse me?"

"I know I can't be in the room—but I want to be next door, seeing his reactions in real-time. Because I can assure you that I know him better than anyone else here right now, and if one of my agents is some kind of domestic terrorist, I think I deserve to see it firsthand."

" _If_? Five seconds ago, you were adamant about his innocence."

"I still am. I'm just using reasoning that will appeal to the rest of you—and truth be told, I want to be the first one to look into every single person's eyes and say _I told you so_."

Mateo Cruz warred between admiration and an itching desire to punch the guy square in the face.

"Has he been questioned yet?" Hotchner asked quietly.

"No. They're still talking to Rossi. But he's up next."

* * *

 _"When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching—they are your family."  
~Jim Butcher._


	7. And So We Return and Begin Again

**And So We Return and Begin Again**

" _Have more than you show, speak less than you know."_

 _~William Shakespeare._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: Thank you to everyone for all the adds, follows, faves, and reviews. Some of you have been waiting for a particular section in this particular chapter since the beginning of "The Way the World Ends". Thank you for so patiently trusting that we'd get here.***_

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_ _  
_

If Spencer Reid had to guess, he'd say that he'd been in this room for a solid hour. Maybe ninety minutes. Somewhere in-between.

He really should have been counting.

None of that mattered the second that the door swung open and Jack Dawson breezed in. The man hadn't even fully closed the door before he began firing questions.

"So how do you know Benjamin Fuller?"

"I'm sorry, who?" Reid blinked, slightly thrown-off by the immediate attack. He'd expected some kind of opening, some rehearsed speech in which Dawson gave him some kind of clue as to why they'd even _think_ he was connected to all this, much less the actual person behind it all.

"Oh, don't tell me you've already forgotten him." Dawson settled into the chair opposite Reid's, his face completely blank. Something about his tone was borderline aggressive—and Spencer Reid had never responded well to bullies.

"I have an eidetic memory. I don't forget." He kept the snideness out of his tone, but barely, so that it was still felt. It was a trick he'd learned a long time ago. When pushed, push back just enough to make them reconsider trying again.

"Right." Again, Dawson waged between being patronizing and completely sarcastic.

"Right." Spencer returned, with a little more force than necessary. Something was wrong, he could sense it. Dawson's demeanor wasn't helping—it put him on edge, automatically made him feel defensive, and something in the back of his head was screaming that this was not the time to be combative. So he pulled back his own desire to lash out and tried to infuse some calm into his tone, "Could you please just tell me why I've been charged? I just don't…I don't understand what could have happened to make you think—"

"Benjamin Fuller named you as his co-conspirator."

"What? But I've never even met the man—"

"Then why would he tell us that you were the mastermind behind the attack?" Dawson didn't mention that Fuller was dead—it was best to have Reid believing that the person who'd named him was still alive and kicking.

"I don't know—why don't you take your tough-guy act to him and find out?" The young doctor shot back coolly, and Dawson had to stop himself from grinning at the man's attitude. Reid didn't offer explanations, didn't try to besmirch Fuller's testimony—all in all, good signs.

"Right now, I want to focus all my attention on you," Dawson returned easily, setting his elbows on the table in a gesture that implied an earnest openness and a desire to listen. "So tell me your side of the story, Spencer."

"There's nothing to tell. There is no side because I'm not part of the story—at least not in the way that you think." Now he leaned forward as well, eager to prove his innocence, "Look, I get how this looks—but if you go deeper, you'll see that it's the farthest thing from the truth. Have your techs look at the email—there's no way it was actually sent from my phone. And Linnea—whoever sent her the email had to not only know about her connection to Maeve, but Maeve's connection to me, and I promise you, that's a very short list. I don't know why Fuller chose me as a scapegoat—"

"Especially when your team mates would've have made such better sells," Dawson interjected smoothly. With a slight wave of his hand, he pointed out, "Rossi, for instance, or even Hotchner. Both of their tragedies would've fit the narrative better, don't you think?"

"I…don't know." It was a lie, and an obvious one. Spencer Reid might be desperate to prove his innocence, but he wasn't going throw his colleagues under the bus in the process. It was admirable.

"Which brings us back to the question: why you?" Dawson sat back. "If this is all one big set up, why choose you?"

"Another excellent question for Benjamin Fuller." Spencer Reid's gaze was now focused on the one-way mirror behind Jack Dawson, the clinical scrutiny in his gaze giving away exactly what he was doing—he was waiting for someone to open the door to the viewing room, to let a shaft of light pierce the room and perhaps illuminate anyone who was standing closely to the window. It was something you wouldn't even know to look for, unless you knew how those mirrors worked.

Obviously, Dr. Reid did know.

"You know, for such a smart man, you made a very elementary mistake," Dawson prodded—he'd learned a long time ago that most geniuses were fiercely protective of their intelligence's reputation. However, Spencer Reid didn't react at all.

Surprisingly, Jack Dawson still took that as a good sign.

* * *

On the other side of the glass, Aaron Hotchner watched, his mouth pressed into a thin line of barely-contained disapproval. He was flanked on either side by Matt Cruz and Scott O'Donnell, who'd had a very heated debate over whether or not to allow him in the room on this one. Jessalyn Keller was standing closer to the glass, watching the verbal volley between her boss and Dr. Reid with a rapt intensity that blurred out everything else in the room.

"Is there any particular reason that Agent Dawson is taking such a hostile tone with Dr. Reid?" Cruz asked quietly, though the disapproval in his tone was still evident. You generally didn't get a lot of cooperation from a suspect by being aggressive and insulting their intelligence.

"There is," was Keller's only reply. She never took her eyes from the scene in front of her.

The door opened, and Eden and Shostakovich entered. Eden moved up to the glass, giving it a light tap with her knuckles. Dawson heard the sound and halted the interview, reassuring Dr. Reid that they would continue in a moment. Within seconds, he was in the viewing room.

"So?" He looked to Eden and Shostakovich expectantly.

Eden shrugged, "The two techies didn't give us anything more than what we already knew from Sura."

She handed him a sheet of paper, ripped from the little notebook that was now safely reinstalled in her back pocket. "But here's some direct quotes, anyways."

Dawson gave a curt nod. He spared a quick glance at Aaron Hotchner, his brows lifting in slight surprise. It was obvious that Agent Hotchner had plenty of comments to make on the current status of the investigation, but he was also wise enough not to voice them aloud.

"Alright then," Dawson held up the piece of paper with a slight flair. "Back into the belly of the beast."

Hotchner's cellphone buzzed. He glanced at it, quietly informing Cruz, "Kate Callahan's here."

He slipped out the door without another word, though Cruz could tell by his dour expression that Aaron didn't like the idea of leaving Reid to the wolves, even if his presence was little more than an unseen show of solidarity.

Cruz still needed to figure out how Aaron had known about this at all. He glanced around at the people in the room—the only ones, in theory, who knew about Reid's alleged involvement. Jonas Shostakovich seemed like the least likely candidate for sharing—he hadn't exactly become a fan favorite with the BAU, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Jessalyn Keller seemed almost as unlikely as her team mate—she wasn't cold, but she was a bit…standoffish. The idea of her getting cozy enough to warn the BAU in advance didn't seem plausible. Judith Eden was a bit of a different story, but he'd watched her set aside her personal bias numerous times over the past two days, and he felt that even if she'd wanted to say something, she wouldn't have ever crossed the line.

The only two people left in the room were himself and Scott O'Donnell—he hadn't said anything, and he knew that Scott wouldn't have done anything to jeopardize the investigation, much less his position as SAC.

No, he needed to look outside the room. Who else knew? Adelaide Macaraeg and Sura Roza. The latter was a definite no-go—she was a textbook example of the infamous GSA, the German Shepherd analyst, so named due to their fierce sense of loyalty towards their particular team. She'd never give a single shred of information to anyone outside that circle, unless specifically instructed to do so by her team leader.

Which left Macaraeg. The day before, she'd acted oddly about another leak that had happened—as if she'd known who it was. Which implied that the leak was either herself or someone on her team. But would she have taken the time to either call the BAU herself, or to inform her other two team members about the development, which would have in turn led to one of them telling Hotchner about Reid's arrest?

It didn't make sense. Macaraeg had known about the mention of Reid in Fuller's journals, but she hadn't been part of the conversation in which Dawson decided to actually arrest him. So her knowledge would have been based on supposition.

Aaron Hotchner wouldn't have come here on a supposition. He had to have heard the news from someone who'd been there, who'd seen or heard it, someone in the building—

The answer nearly smacked him in the face with its obviousness.

Dora. She'd been here. She'd been waiting for him, waiting to ask him what they'd found—and her behavior, it had been so… _knowing_. Like she'd known the answer to the question before she even asked. He hadn't confirmed whatever suspicions she'd had, but his refusal to confirm could've been just as easily taken as confirmation—Dora Carrington wasn't stupid, she could easily put two and two together. If she somehow already knew about Reid's arrest, Cruz's denial would have only enforced her suspicions, instead of putting a damper on them.

Reality settled like a stack of bricks on his shoulders—both the shock of the betrayal and the inevitable truth of how it must be dealt with.

He sighed as he headed for the door as well. Someone was going to have to quell whatever storm was brewing amongst the BAU agents, and he might as well start his penance now.

* * *

Kate Callahan had to admit—as much as she wanted to help Reid, her first thought had been about keeping her other teammates from doing something brash. Upon seeing Hotch's expression, followed by Derek Morgan's hurried and displeased appearance shortly afterwards, she knew that her concern hadn't been unfounded.

Hotch looked calmer, as if he'd had time to deal with whatever intense emotions he'd felt after first learning of Reid's arrest, but Morgan obviously hadn't had that luxury yet. He looked ready to storm the entire Academy, a one-man army on a mission. It was a minor miracle that he hadn't done just that.

"What's going on?" Morgan asked, trying to keep his voice quiet, although there wasn't anyone else in the foyer. The hour was late and the Academy was practically abandoned, except for the two dozen or so agents who were pulling some long hours to sift through interviews or watch security footage.

"Dawson's questioning Reid now," Hotch informed them. With a slight shake of his head, he added, "It's not looking good."

"What evidence do they have?" Callahan asked, truly bewildered at the question.

Hotch took another deep breath, "Some kind of journal the UNSUB left behind—implications to Reid. Plus, they're trying to use his behavior surrounding the entire incident, the connection to Maeve's sister—it's highly circumstantial at best, but with the right spin…"

He didn't have to finish that statement. The behavioral analysts understood—an atrocious crime had been committed, and the Bureau wanted blood. Their frenzy for retribution could easily cloud their judgment, especially if given just enough pieces of rope to construct a noose.

And by now, everyone in the BAU had been made aware of the fact that a reporter, who happened to be Maeve's sister, had come forward, claiming that Spencer Reid had emailed her about the bombing (a laughable concept for anyone who knew Spencer). It had drawn Rossi and Reid further into the investigation, and when the rest of the team had left earlier that evening, they'd all assumed that their two teammates would be released in few hours, once the Flying Js had realized what was really happening.

But those assumptions were currently being proven false—in the worst of ways.

"So what do we do now?" Morgan asked, setting his hands on his hips.

"Nothing," Hotch looked as if the answer pained him. "We're not in charge on this one—if we cause too big of a fuss, we'll likely find ourselves in some kind of holding room, and that won't do Rossi or Reid any good."

The sound of footsteps in the corridor got their attention. The three behavioral analysts turned to see Scott O'Donnell and Mateo Cruz headed their way.

"Cruz, you know this is bullshit," Morgan attempted to appeal to their section chief. "You _know_ Reid, man. You know he couldn't do something like this, not in a million years."

"Agent Morgan, there is a convincing amount of evidence," O'Donnell returned, his face contorted in an expression of compassion. He understood the desire to believe that your friend was innocent—even if he wasn't.

Morgan stood a little straighter, "You know, when I was arrested for the murder of those three boys in Chicago, the police department said the same about me—and I was innocent."

"Yes, but it's a numbers game, isn't it?" O'Donnell shot back. "I mean, that isn't the only time a member of the BAU has been considered a suspect—how many times can the BAU members be accused of a crime and actually be innocent?"

"As many times as we actually _are_ innocent," Callahan replied coolly. "Like now."

"What can we do?" Hotchner cut in, his voice low and serious. "What do you need to prove Reid's innocence? We'll sit down for a second round of questioning, we can provide documentation of an alibi—just tell us what we can do to help."

Cruz and O'Donnell took a beat to share a look of uncertainty.

"It's not really for us to decide," O'Donnell admitted quietly. He held out his hands in a helpless gesture, "Jack Dawson and his team have free rein to handle this investigation as they see fit—and so far, Dawson hasn't made any kind of sign that he wants anything from you guys. Given the fact that you're all infamously tight-knit, he might think it's a waste of time. I mean, what's the point in interviewing you, when all you're going to do is protest Agent Reid's innocence?"

"It would all be true, and it would all be on the record—and it's _Doctor_ Reid." The last bit tumbled out of Hotch's mouth before he could even stop it. He could've sworn he saw the briefest flicker of a grin at the corner of Derek Morgan's mouth.

"I'm sorry," O'Donnell truly did look apologetic, for what it was worth. "There's nothing you can do—honestly, you shouldn't even be here unless Dawson sent for you."

He looked over at Cruz in slight puzzlement, but the section chief merely gave a curt shake of his head ( _long story, I'll explain later_ ).

"Where's Agent Rossi?" Morgan asked, trying to keep the frustration from overwhelming him.

"They should be releasing him soon," O'Donnell assured him. "But I don't think Dr. Reid's going anywhere tonight—they've got 72 hours to hold him, although since this is considered an act of terrorism, I'm not sure if those rules even apply to this."

"Will we at least be allowed to speak to him?" Hotch felt a tremor of fear—they needed to figure out what the hell was going on, and they couldn't do it without talking to Reid.

O'Donnell made another gesture of uncertainty. "It's Dawson's game right now—and anybody's guess as to whether or not he'll allow something like that."

A movement at the other end of the hallway caught Kate Callahan's eye—she felt her entire body sag in relief at the sight of David Rossi. The others noticed her sudden change in physicality, and they all turned to look as well.

The glare that Rossi bestowed upon O'Donnell and Cruz definitively implied his current disdain for the roles they were playing in this drama, though for once, he kept his thoughts to himself. He walked around them, firmly planting himself next to Callahan, keeping the other two men in the deadlock of his stare.

Trying to break the tension, Hotch quietly asked his friend, "Are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Dave replied in a nonchalant sing-song that was the furthest thing from matching his facial expression or body language.

"Rossi," Cruz began. "I don't expect you to—"

"Good. Because I don't. In fact, I'm not sure why you two are even still standing here right now. Unless you're planning to show us the evidence against Reid."

"We're not at liberty to show anyone," O'Donnell reminded him, a harder edge slicing into his tone. "And why the hell would it matter, anyway? It wouldn't change your mind."

Rossi gave a slight shrug of agreement. "No, but at least it would show us where we need to start, when it comes to poking holes through whatever laughable case you think you've got against him."

"Agent Rossi, I've always admired the hell out of you, but don't push your luck," O'Donnell warned.

"An honest man should never fear to speak the truth," he returned easily. He spared another cutting glance at his section chief ( _what's your excuse, Cruz?_ ).

"I think it's best if you all just went home," Cruz spoke quietly, trying to soothe away the frazzled nerves and tense muscles in the room. "Dr. Reid isn't going anywhere tonight, and I very seriously doubt that Dawson will let you speak to him—certainly not yet. Everyone's tired, everyone's stressed, emotions are running high—it's a recipe for disaster, and I'd prefer to head it off before someone does something we'll all regret."

"Oh, it's a bit too late for that," Derek Morgan intoned, almost under his breath. David Rossi gave a slight smirk of agreement.

"Tell Dawson we're here," Hotch turned his focus back to O'Donnell. "Tell him that we need to see Reid, and that we want to see this supposed evidence against him."

"I don't think it's gonna get you anywhere—"

"Won't know until we try," Hotch returned easily, though the determined set of his face informed the Quantico SAC that they weren't going anywhere until they received some kind of answer anyways.

"Fine," O'Donnell threw up his hands in exasperation. "I'll ask. But that's all you get."

"That's all we're asking for," Hotch reminded him quietly.

O'Donnell and Cruz disappeared down the hall again. Once they were out of earshot, Hotch turned back to his team, keeping his head low and his voice quiet.

"We need to get ahead of this, and we need to do it now. O'Donnell's right, there's no way we're going to get anything tonight. Even if Dawson agreed, O'Donnell and Cruz both need to pull power plays to remind us of our rank in this situation. Which means it will be at least tomorrow before we get to speak to Reid or see the evidence—if we're lucky."

"So we go cowboy on this?" Callahan's eyes were wide, but more from adrenaline than fear.

"Not the phrase I would've chosen to describe it, but yeah," Hotch admitted.

"We can use my place as home base," Rossi offered. "Plenty of room to set up boards, maps, whatever we need."

Hotch's cellphone buzzed. He glanced down and read the name on the caller ID. "Actually, I might have a better location."

He answered the call, "Garcia, are you home yet?"

"Yes, sir. That's why I was calling."

"Good. Do you mind having visitors?"

* * *

 _ **London, England.**_

"Have you ever had sexual relations with a coworker?"

Emily Prentiss took a moment to size up the somber faces seated around the table, taking care to keep her body relaxed and unreadable. The inquest had been hell, but it hadn't broken down all of her defenses.

Then, with a quick flick of the wrist, she downed her shot of vodka.

The table erupted into cries of surprise—and that's when Emily realized that she was the only one who'd taken a drink.

"Emiline," Brighid took on the tone of feigned shocked disapproval as she used her friend's nickname (it was part of the odd language of their group friendship—they'd given one another "uppity" names that were similar to their actual ones, like Emiline for Emily and Brighidalia for Brighid).

Emily's first reaction to the gleefully scandalized expressions of her three friends' faces was laughter, though she flushed slightly as she explained, "It wasn't—I mean, it was after we stopped working together."

"Oh, god," Anne (uppity alias: Annissa) clapped her hand over her chest. "Please tell me it wasn't Jonathan from the translation department."

"Why? Already put your own finger in that pie?" Sorcha (alias: Sorchinia) arched a coy eyebrow, taking a sip of some fruity concoction that contained enough rum and sugar to ensure both liver failure and diabetes. However, she'd earned the right to a good, solid drink—they were all members of the London Interpol branch, and they'd all been neck-deep in a damned inquest for days now, but it was finally over and this was the first time they'd had a moment to relax. For Emily, it was the first time she'd even left her office in days.

The table erupted into laughter again as Anne rolled her eyes, giving Sorcha's shoulder a playful nudge, "No…Jonathan was just bonkers over Emily, so he seemed like the logical choice."

"Our dear Emiline did have a hold over him," Brighid agreed with a wry smile at Emily, who was suspiciously silent. "So, who was it? Did valiant young Johnny conquer the pristine peaks of Mount Prentiss?"

"No, no, it was…." Emily didn't finish, instead setting her glass back on the table forcefully in protest. "Wait, this isn't how the game is played! Questions are only answered in shots—"

"Deflection, Emiline." Brighid sing-songed. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much—"

"I second Emily's statement," Sorcha raised her glass, rescuing her friend from the moment. She tapped Brighid, "Get on with it. Your turn to ask a question."

"Have you ever," Brighid turned her calculating green eyes back to Emily, and the American knew that she wasn't off the hook yet. "Slept with an FBI agent?"

Well, of course, Emily had to take a drink. It was the rule of the game, after all.

And, of course, she was the only one.

"I knew it!" Brighid crowed, slamming her hand on the table as if to emphasize her point.

"Oh, please tell me it was that Agent Morgan who visited a while back," Sorcha gave a dry smile. "He was positively yummy."

"I plead the fifth," Emily held up her hands.

"You're not in America, Chief Prentiss," Anne reminded her. "The Fifth Amendment has no power here."

Emily gave a groan of mock defeat, which only elicited more laughter from her friends.

"Keep your secrets, Emiline," Brighid decreed, taking a sip of her vodka tonic with a knowing smile. She twirled one of her naturally-corkscrewed curls with her fingertips—a simple habit that always seemed to make her look more cunning and devious. "But we're on to you. The truth will out."

Emily ignored the playful threat as she refilled her own shot glass. She decided to remind her friend exactly how dangerous it was to play with fire, "Have you ever had sex in the bathroom of the Lexington Pub?"

Brighid took the shot like a champ. More howls of surprise escaped from Anne and Sorcha.

Emily arched her eyebrow. _See? Two can play this game._

Brighid merely winked. Of all the people Emily knew in London, Brighid was easily her closest friend. Her wit was quick, sharp, at times a little too biting for comfort, but she was never malicious about it, and for some reason, that made Emily like her all the more. Brighid could push buttons—in fact, there was an interoffice joke that she'd been recruited simply for her ability to instantly get under anyone's skin, from the moment they met her—but there seemed to be some kind of invisible line, something only she saw and would never cross. She might tip-toe right up to it, but she'd never even breathe over the line. She teased Emily mercilessly at times (especially when she'd been drinking or when they were letting off steam after a rough day), but she never gave Emily more than she could handle. It was a trait that was both irritating and admirable—and fascinating, Emily had to admit.

There was a slight lull in the game as Anne went back to the bar to get another drink. Emily took a moment to simply observe her companions—if anyone ever wanted a physical compilation of the tribes that once ruled and warred along this set of islands, they could look no further than her three friends. Anne was tall, lithe, and blessed (or cursed, depending on who you asked) with striking ginger features, pale skinned and freckled, with a smile that could crack open the hardest heart. Sorcha was her polar opposite, short and stocky with dark features accented by a roman nose, high cheekbones, and resting bitch face. Then there was Brighid, with her curly dirty-dishwater blonde hair, wide green eyes, and skin that was easily two shades darker than her companions, giving her an exotic allure amongst the paleness of her friends. They complemented each other well—Sorcha often joked that all they needed was a black woman and they'd be the cast of any television programme, with their diverse looks (to which Brighid would always add, _and, yeah, we've even got an American_ , because she never wanted Emily to feel left out).

Emily tried to remember how they'd all fallen into their little gang—sure, they all worked together, but in completely different departments. Sorcha was the front-desk receptionist, Anne was a translator, and Brighid had retired from the field to go into the accounting and expense department. Then of course there was Emily herself, who was technically their boss, but they never seemed to remember that, whenever they were out and about—and for that, Emily was extremely grateful. After a lifetime of being pushed to the side, she hated feeling different in any way, and they never let her feel on the outside of anything that happened in their little clique, though the three had been friends before Emily had shown up.

Suddenly, Emily felt her phone vibrate—she sat back, slipping the phone out of the front pocket of her black jeans.

Her heart stopped at the name on the screen.

"I, um—I have to take this—hold on," Emily slipped away from the pub table, stumbling her way out onto the street, where the coolness of the night air snapped a bolt of sobriety through her.

"Hello," she answered, her voice as breathless as if she'd run a marathon, not navigated fifty feet.

"It's me."

"Hi." She didn't know how else to respond—she'd already spoken to him more times in the past forty-eight hours than she had in months. Each call became more ominous, and the quivering in her gut informed her that this one would continue the pattern.

"I know it's late—"

"No, no, it's fine—the inquest is finally over, but we're out—it doesn't matter. I'm still awake, it's fine." She'd taken more shots than she'd realized. Her tongue was stumbling over her teeth, as if it had somehow doubled in size. Of course it wasn't entirely the alcohol to blame—even with an ocean between them, her heart still raced at the mere blip of his name on her phone's screen.

"I wouldn't call unless it was important," his voice was almost-timid, almost-apologetic.

She didn't tell him that she wouldn't mind him calling just to talk—she couldn't. Whatever they had, whatever this was, it only existed when they were together, physically together, in the same room, the same time-zone—everything in between was another world a place of gauzy remembrances and faint longings.

Except that the homesick longing currently coursing through her veins was anything but faint.

Homesick. How could she be homesick for a person, for a man who'd never been more than a temporary port in the ongoing storm of her life?

She didn't even allow herself to consider that question.

"What's going on, Hotch?" She forced herself to focus on the present moment, cringing at how cold and impatient she sounded.

"It's Reid."

Her heart stopped. "What's happened? Hotch, is he OK?"

"Physically, yes—"

"Physically, what does that mean, _physically_?"

"Emily, I need you to keep calm." He wasn't Aaron anymore, he was SSA Hotchner, and the change sent an ice-pick through her gut—if he was slipping into his professional armor, the news he was delivering must be horrible indeed.

However, she simply nodded, "OK. I'm…I'm as calm as I'm gonna be."

If had been a less serious situation, he probably would have laughed at the statement. But this was serious, and so was he. "Earlier tonight, the team leading the investigation found a possible suspect. When they went to his house, they found evidence—a few journals, possibly something else, since they're not letting us see anything—that implicated Reid in the bombing."

"Jesus, Hotch, they can't possibly think—"

"They do. They arrested him."

Emily stopped all movement. Then, before Hotch could continue, she quickly informed him, "I'm calling you back in five minutes—you can tell me the rest on the cab ride back to my apartment. I'm going to be on the next flight out of Heathrow."

"Emily, I…there's nothing you can do," his voice was gentle, breaking with tenderness.

"Hotch, I should have been on a plane the second that I knew what had happened to JJ. My family's falling apart and I won't stay on the sidelines an ocean away. I don't know what I can do to help, but I certainly can't do it from here. I'm coming home."

He gave a slight sigh, but he knew better than to try talking her out of it. Truly, he had to have known that this was how this call would end, before he even dialed her number. The die was as good as cast, the moment Reid was arrested. Briefly, she wondered if that was why he had called—because he knew it would bring her back, back to him, back to another chance (but another chance at what?). She pushed that ridiculous thought from her mind. Aaron Hotchner was many (mostly wonderful) things, but he wasn't that manipulative or desperate.

Either way, it didn't matter if Aaron Hotchner had known how she'd react or not. Because either way, Emily Prentiss was joining the fray.

* * *

" _Demons run when a good man goes to war_ _  
_ _Night will fall and drown the sun_ _  
_ _When a good man goes to war."_

 _~Steven Moffat._


	8. Circle the Wagons

**Circle the Wagons**

" _For every time when you're not able…_

 _For every breath of heart unstable…_

 _If you call I will be listening, a little call from you to me…_

 _It's no trouble, no trouble at all_

 _You are no trouble to me_

 _And you will never be."_

 _~Maria Doyle Kennedy, "Stars Above"._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: Mental casting—for Brighid Adair, think Alex Kingston. Because really, if the world's falling apart, who better to have on your side than River Song?***_

* * *

 _ **London, England.**_

"I'm sorry, I have to go," Emily was back at the table in the pub, grabbing her jacket and her purse from the chair. She opened her wallet.

"Ach," Sorcha waved away her money. "I said I was buying—"

"Emily, what's going on?" Anne's pale face was etched with worry. "You look ill."

"I'm—I've gotta go," she was fumbling now, her mind trying to battle the effects of too little sleep and too much alcohol as she tried to organize her thoughts into what she needed to do, what affairs she needed to get in order before leaving. "There's—something's happened with my old team at the Bureau. They need me."

"Wait, so...what? You're jetting off to America _now_?" Brighid's green eyes were wide with incredulity. She was on her feet as well now, "Emily, you can't—"

"I can and I am," Emily informed her curtly. And she knew that she could pull it off—she had plenty of vacation time saved up, and Clyde Easter had even gently suggested that she take a week off, now that the inquest was finally over. "Look, I have to go—I've got to make some calls, book a flight—I'm sorry, I'll text you all and keep you all in the loop as much as I can. But right now, I have to leave."

Anne merely nodded. Sorcha took a long draught of her drink, a sign that Emily took for assent. Brighid still hadn't returned to her seat, but the stare that she was giving Emily informed her that she didn't think this was the right decision at all.

With one last round of apologies and promises to let them know when she'd made it safely onto US soil, Emily left the bar.

She headed down the street, which was nearly deserted on this hour on a weeknight, sucking down the biting cold air in an attempt to clear her head.

Footsteps echoed behind her, quick and determined, and she knew their owner long before she turned to see Brighid charging down the sidewalk.

"Emily, you can't be serious," she was hurrying after her now, her naturally corkscrewed and riotously voluminous curls throwing their own rave to the double-timed pulse of her steps. She stopped abruptly once she reached Emily, holding up a hand to stop her American friend from replying. "However, if you are, let me take care of it."

"Wha…what?" Emily blinked—this was not the response she had been expecting.

"I know all the codes to enter your vacation time into the system, I have all the pilots on speed-dial—I can get your request paperwork sorted _and_ I can get you on a private flight to D.C. within the next three hours," Brighid gave an easy flick of her wrist, as if dismissing the task for its sheer simplicity. Then she reached out, gently placing her hand on Emily's upper arm, her tone low and serious, "I know how you feel about your old team. I get it, I do. They're your family."

The tears that pricked in Emily Prentiss' big dark eyes were the only reply that Brighid needed. She continued softly, "They're important to you—and you're my friend, so they're important to me. I don't know what the devil's going on, but I know it would take a lot to scare you and make you react the way you did in there. I can't do much, but I can help you get there. So please, let me help."

"But—this isn't an Interpol case. You can't just acquisition resources to fly me—"

"How about we just try and see what happens?" Brighid forced a playful smile. She gave a slight shrug, "Live a little, Emiline. Take the risk. If anything happens, I'll be the one taking the rap. And I'm a very big girl who can handle a little bit of disciplinary action."

"You could lose your job."

"Emily, I'm a glorified accountant. It wouldn't exactly be the stuff of Greek tragedies. Now stop playing hard to get and let me take you home."

She should refuse. She should tell Brighid that she could handle it on her own—and truly, she could. But Emily Prentiss was tired of being the lone and independent ranger. Right now, her main focus was getting to Quantico as quickly as possible—and Brighid Adair could make that happen.

"Fine. But I will pay for the actual expenses out of my own pocket."

Brighid's grin widened, "Darling, I wouldn't have it any other way."

She looped her arm through Emily's, pulling her in the opposite direction. "Now, c'mon. I'm much more sober than you are, and I actually drove here—so I can drop you at your place before I head back to the office and work my magic."

"My very own fairy godmother," Emily joked.

"Drop the _fairy_ and the _mother_ , and you've got it about right."

Emily laughed. "No one can ever claim that you suffer from low self-esteem, Brighidalia."

Her friend grinned again, "We all have our strengths—mine is knowing how amazing I am."

Once they were in the car, Brighid took a moment to fiddle with her cellphone before plugging it into the auxiliary jack.

"If we're going to start an adventure, we _must_ have the right theme music," she explained.

The second she heard the jazz horns erupt onto the speakers, Emily began to laugh. The song was so iconic that anyone could instantly recognize it within the first few notes.

"What? It's perfect," Brighid informed her, slipping into the light traffic as she turned up the music. Emily hummed in amusement, shaking her head at her friend's antics.

Brighid began singing along with Sam & Dave, belting out, _Hold on, I'm coming…Hold on, I'm coming…._

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Adelaide Macaraeg delicately handed the thin plastic evidence bag to Jack Dawson—from underneath the clear protective cover, the list of addresses in Spencer Reid's handwriting stared back at him, as easily recognizable as it had been several hours ago when he'd first seen it.

For some reason, he'd almost hoped that it had changed. That it was somehow magically not what he knew it to be.

"When does this go out to the handwriting analyst?" He asked, more out a need to make some kind of conversation than actual curiosity. Macaraeg had been completely tight-lipped since her arrival back at the Academy. Granted, she'd been back less than ten minutes, and had spent most of that time finding this particular piece of evidence amongst the crowded contents of the evidence van.

"First thing tomorrow morning," she informed him. With a slight gesture towards the paper, she added, "Once you've finished with it, I'm taking back to the evidence lab to dust for prints and do some preliminary scans."

He gave a small nod of approval—that seemed completely in-line with the mental image he'd built of Macaraeg over the past few hours. The woman didn't believe in wasting a single second.

"Thank you," he turned and headed back into the interrogation room, where Spencer Reid was still waiting.

Dr. Reid had lost his fearfulness, even his anger. Now, with each new piece of evidence that Dawson brought to him, he approached it with genuine curiosity. Either he was an innocent man truly trying to solve the mystery of why he'd been framed, or he was an actor of the highest talent.

"Care to explain this?" Jack slid the plastic evidence bag across the table.

Reid leaned forward to study it, not actually touching it with his hands. "Looks like a list of addresses."

"In your handwriting."

"Is that what a certified handwriting analyst says?" Now Reid looked back up at the older man.

"Not yet. But what if that's exactly what he says?"

"Well, seeing as I have no idea what these addresses are for, or how they connect to the actual case, I don't know."

"These addresses are for beauty salons. And hardware stores." Dawson let those two pieces of information sink in, watching the changes in Reid's face as he realized the implication.

Now the young doctor became cautious. "Where did you get this?"

"Benjamin Fuller gave it to us." Dawson still hadn't told Reid that Fuller was dead—and technically, the statement wasn't an outright lie. Though of course, if Spencer Reid _was_ the man who murdered Fuller, then the news wouldn't come as any big surprise, and all of this would have been one big charade, on both their parts. Right now, Reid behaved as if he truly thought Fuller was alive. And again, Dawson wondered if it was truthfulness or an impressive level of deception.

"So a man who is the prime suspect in a bombing just handily keeps a scrap of paper—supposedly written by me—to flash at you the second that he's questioned?" Spencer arched his brow in incredulity. "I have to admit, if I were involved in a clandestine plot to attack the federal government, I really hope I would have chosen better conspirators."

That wasn't the best response, but it did get a small smile from Dawson. Reid continued, "I want to speak to this man. I want to know how he came across this—"

"Are you denying that this is your handwriting?"

"Categorically, yes. I will admit that this _looks_ like my handwriting, but I did not write this—"

"Are you sure?"

"Eidetic memory, remember?" Reid sat back, motioning toward the door. "I want to speak to him. He obviously chose to frame me for some reason—I want to know why."

Dawson looked down at this hands for a beat, then returned his cold blue eyes back to his suspect. "Dr. Reid, Benjamin Fuller isn't available for a chat. We found him dead in his home—suicide at first glance, but closer inspection showed that he'd been murdered. Implying that he did, in fact, have some kind of accomplice or co-conspirator who used him as a pawn and then disposed of him, once his usefulness had run its course. So right now, all we have is this dead man's journals, and scraps of paper he'd kept—obviously as some kind of insurance to protect himself, although we see how well that worked. Which means that you're the only one who can explain how you two know each other, and what's really going on."

Something in Dawson's tone had changed. He wasn't combative, or aggressive, or even mildly amused, as he had been in previous stages of the interview. He was almost pleading, as if he were searching for something. His eyes remained zeroed in on the younger man's face. Spencer Reid didn't look relieved. He looked like a man whose ray of hope had been extinguished. A man mourning the loss of the one person who could prove his innocence, or a man upset that he'd been found out?

"I…I don't know this man," Reid confessed quietly. "I don't know how or why he thought he knew me, or why he wanted to implicate me in this. I just…I don't know."

Dawson merely nodded. Then he rose to his feet.

"Sit tight, Dr. Reid. We've got a few more questions to answer tonight."

* * *

 _ **Heathrow Airport. London, England.**_

"You've already called Mika Kimathi."

"Yes."

"You put your final reports from the inquest into the system."

"Yes."

"You left food out for Sergio."

"Check." Emily Prentiss gave a curt nod as she rummaged through her bag one last time, making sure that she had everything she needed. Brighid stood next to her in the small building outposted on the private side of the airport, where they were waiting for Emily's pilot.

True to her word, it had been a record-breaking two hours and forty-five minutes since they'd left the pub—Brighid had gotten Emily back to her flat, sobered her up a bit, and then had gone back to the Interpol office to pull strings of amazing proportions. Emily made a mental note to never get on her friend's bad side—with the kind of power that she apparently had, Brighid Adair could do some serious damage, if she so chose.

The darkly-tinted glass door swung open, and a weathered man stepped in. He was trying to look unhappy, but the amusement twinkling in his eyes gave him away. "Bri, you owe me, big-time."

He was Polish, judging by the accent. Emily guessed that he'd been quite the looker in his younger days—wheat-blond hair, steely blue eyes, chiseled features. Time hadn't been particularly kind, but he still had the air of a fallen Robert Redford. He seemed familiar.

"What else is new?" Brighid offered with a light roll of her eyes. He smiled, as if in agreement.

"Your mother's well?"

"As always. Illness and old age are much too frightened by her to try and attack," Brighid was smiling widely now. Emily had met her friend's mother, and could attest to that statement—Mrs. Adair seemed formidably ageless. The Englishwoman gestured towards her, "This is Emily Prentiss, my friend—"

"And the lady running the London office," the pilot added with a slight measure of respect. "Dav Bosko. I've had the pleasure of flying Mr. Easter around this world many times—and you, too, once, but I don't think you'll remember me. It was many years ago."

Emily offered a smile and shook his hand. "I thought you looked familiar. Thank you for helping us, on such short notice."

"Ah, anything for our girl," he nodded towards Brighid, who was still smiling warmly. The blonde had a reputation at Interpol for being a bit irritating (a reputation which she seemed adamant to uphold and protect), so Emily was slightly surprised to see someone who obviously found her friend so charming. And Brighid _was_ being charming, with the quiet adoration that a girl might have for her favorite crazy uncle.

Dav Bosko motioned back outside. "It will take me a little while to get everything going, but we'll leave within the half-hour. At this time of night, the runway's empty, so we shouldn't have to wait for clearance. I'll call Bri when it's time to board."

Emily nodded, giving one last smile and thank-you before the pilot went back outside.

"How much does he know?" Emily asked, more out of curiosity than concern. Yes, she was leaving in the dead of night, but it wasn't exactly a clandestine operation.

"He knows where he's going and who he's taking," Brighid gave a curt nod. "That's all he needs to know—and all he _wants_ to know. He knows better than to ask too many questions in this business. That's what's kept him in this business for so long."

She turned her full attention to her friend, slightly adjusting Emily's scarf like a mother readying her child for the first day of school. "Right. You're sure you've got everything?"

"Yes." Emily looked up at the ceiling. Everything was done—well, except for actually speaking to Clyde Easter. He'd uncharacteristically not answered his phone, so she'd left a voicemail. She was certain that when he did listen to it, the reaction would not be pleasant. She turned her worried eyes back to her friend, "And you're sure about this? You're sure you can handle the potential wrath of Clyde Easter?"

"Oh, he's a pushover." Brighid waved the thought away.

"Have you ever met the man?"

"No. But he _is_ a man. Which makes him, by definition, a pushover," she gave a toss of her curls, offering a sly smile. "As they all are, when it comes to my infinite charms."

Emily laughed. Due to her usually aggravatingly ebullient and at turns bitingly caustic personality, Brighid was generally not classified as a charmer.

"Besides," Brighid gave a slight shrug. "What's done is done, and this, my darling, is most certainly done. You're paying for it, so it's technically not costing the agency a dime, and we have dozens of other contract pilots, should the need arise. I haven't deprived Interpol of anything—well, except your fantastic leadership skills and heart-warming presence. But that will be remedied soon enough, too."

Emily nodded again, biting her bottom lip as she turned her attention to the tarmac outside.

"Hey," Brighid's voice was a gentle as the hand on Emily's shoulder. "It's going to be alright."

And Emily Prentiss closed her eyes and wished with all her might that it would be so.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Jack Dawson sat back slightly, opening the thin manila folder in his hands to stare at its contents for a moment. Spencer Reid watched him intently—it was like watching a magician prepare for the final step in a card trick. Whatever Dawson had in that folder, he knew that once he mentioned it, things could get crazy, very quickly. As if they weren't crazy enough.

"You should know that we also checked out the email—the one you sent to Linnea Charles," Dawson informed him.

"The one Linnea Charles _claims_ I sent," the younger man corrected.

Now the sheet of paper inside the manila folder came out to play. Dawson set it on the table, turning it so that Spencer could read it. It was a series of screenshots.

"It's here, Dr. Reid. That's your outbox, from your Bureau email account. There's the outgoing message to Linnea Charles. And here's the email itself, with the interesting little tagline which says it was sent from your phone."

For once, Dr. Reid was speechless. His mouth opened, then shut again. He wanted to protest, to explain, but his mind was still trying to figure out how this had even happened.

"But that's not the most interesting part," Dawson continued easily. "The really, really fascinating detail is the time-stamp."

Reid's eyes went to that particular location on the screenshot of the email.

"It was sent before the bomb went off, according to what we've gathered," Dawson's voice was quiet. He didn't move a muscle as he simply watched and waited.

Dr. Spencer Reid looked like a child who'd lost his mother at the mall—pale skin, wide eyes, mouth open in a mixture of fear and confusion.

"I…I don't know what to say."

"Is that a confession?"

"No." The lost boy disappeared. Dr. Reid's eyes focused on him again, angry and defiant. "It's me saying that I don't know how someone set me up like this. You can check the security feed—there are cameras in the bullpen, you can probably see me, in the conference room, reading over a file—and not touching my phone at all during that time."

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find you giving the performance of a lifetime," Dawson conceded nonchalantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "But that doesn't mean you didn't write the email earlier, and then set it on a delay, allowing it to be sent at the moment when you knew you'd been on-camera, establishing an alibi."

Spencer Reid wanted to laugh hysterically at the accusation. These people obviously didn't know him and his relationship to technology. As usual, everyone assumed that his IQ meant he also designed computers in his spare time.

Damn stereotypes.

Instead, he focused on solving what parts of the riddle that he could. "Earlier, you mentioned that I forgot something. That I overlooked a simple element."

Now Dawson became wary. Would an innocent man ask such a question? Or did that fit better with the image of a man who thought himself a mastermind, who wanted to know just how his plan had failed, how his intelligence had been bested?

"Fuller's insurance policy," Dawson decided to lay his cards on the table. Reid looked at him blankly, so he elaborated. "The journals—you knew they existed, you had to. Where else would you have gotten the piece of paper to use as a suicide note?"

Again, same blank look.

"But if you knew about the journals, then you had to know that they mentioned you—your buddy was keeping a written record of your plans, and you didn't think to take them with you, after you murdered him? I mean, you could have at least burned them or buried them or thrown them in the Potomac."

Now Spencer Reid merely raised his brows. "Doesn't quite seem like the actions of a guilty man covering his tracks, does it? Seems like the actions of another guilty man framing an innocent one."

Jack Dawson smiled. He had to give the man that point, to be sure. And at that point, they'd reached a temporary impasse.

"You'll be staying in custody for the night, Dr. Reid. We'll find a place to keep you comfortable—I only ask that you don't try to hatch some kind of great escape."

Reid held his hands open, "I'm an innocent man. I have no reason to run."

Another unreadable smile from Dawson. "Somehow, I knew you were gonna say that."

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

"OK, you guys have to be like really super quiet because Henry is asleep in my bedroom and I don't want him to wake up and freak out because you're all here," Penelope Garcia informed the four behavioral analysts on her doorstep, who were not allowed inside until they each promised to be as quiet as possible.

Of course, Derek Morgan wrapped her into a big bear hug, which she half-heartedly reciprocated. He pulled back, looking like such a hurt puppy that she couldn't help but reach up and give his cheek a reassuring pat.

"Long day, lover boy," was the only explanation she offered. It wasn't a lie, technically.

He simply nodded—not because he entirely bought her excuse, but because he knew that now wasn't the time to make a scene.

"So, what do we know?" Hotch immediately went back into investigator mode.

"Alright, here's what we have so far." It took Penelope a little longer to get back to her in-home work station, no thanks to her bum leg and corresponding crutch. "I've done a total run-down on Benjamin Fuller—thank you, Sir Hotch, for your sneaky sneaky skills on that one, by the way."

Hotch, of course, had heard the original suspect's name during Dawson's interrogation of Reid—and in all honesty, that had been part of his reason for wanting to watch the interview. Everyone thought he was trying to be supportive, when really he was trying to figure out as much of the puzzle as possible—because _that_ was how he could best support his team member, by using every skill at his disposal to find the actual UNSUB.

"And what've you got, Sweet Thang?" Morgan added the nickname on purpose, as if trying to remind her of their connection.

It didn't seem to work—her response was flat, almost clinical, "Nothing, nada, zip. This guy doesn't do online anything, which is kinda strange when you consider that most people his age are very plugged into the world of the interwebs. Other than that, he looks like a textbook-agent in the Cyber Crime Division."

"That's…fourth floor?" Rossi squinted as he tried to remember. He used to be very proud of his ability to accurately map out every section of that building, the place that had been his home for so many years, but there'd been so many changes and moves and department re-namings that he'd lost his internal index.

Penelope continued, "He doesn't have any glaringly obvious reason for starting a personal vendetta against the Bureau—doesn't even have a parking ticket to his name, which you gotta admit, is a little bit impressive."

She held up her finger as she turned back to her computer, "Also, let me add my intense desire for our bad guys have more original names. Do you know how many possible Benjamin Fullers I had to wade through?"

"Yes, looking for people named Ra's al Ghul would've certainly been a shorter list." Callahan commented with a slight smile.

Penelope didn't turn back around, but the hitch in her shoulders implied her surprise. Derek Morgan looked at her in wonderment as well.

"My husband's a comic book nerd," she admitted easily. "I've absorbed some of it, over the years."

"You and Jack could be really great friends," Hotch informed her in his usual deadpan manner. His son was, like most boys his age, definitely steeped in a world of superheroes and evil genius villains. "Though right now, he's more into X-Men."

"Dude, I'm fluent in both DC and Marvel," she grinned. "We could talk shop all day long."

Derek Morgan was still looking at her as if she'd possibly been swapped out for a robot. He was wearing a slight grin, and something told her that he was using every ounce of self-control he had not to let out some teasing remark about her apparent nerdiness. She merely pointed at him ( _don't start_ ).

He grinned in response. He didn't have to say anything. They both knew the score.

"So Fuller's squeaky clean," Rossi returned the matter at-hand, pushing down a wave of irritation at how damn nonchalant his team seemed at the moment. "Or _was_ squeaky clean. Rule-follower, above and beyond. So what pushes him into going in the complete opposite direction?"

"Compulsion. Zealotry," Callahan supplied, easily slipping back into agent-mode. "He's the type that thrives on the system—he swears his life to it. The only thing that can break that kind of loyalty has to be something he'd see as a betrayal—something big, like really big."

"But what, exactly?" Hotch asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"He wasn't denied—I mean, he never applied for any kind of promotion," Garcia supplied. For a brief moment, Hotch wondered when the techs back at Quantico would realize that Garcia was piggybacking into their system, but then he remembered whom he was dealing with. This woman wasn't running laps around the rest of them, she was hovering over them in a stealth craft, completely off their radar.

"Neither did Curtis," Rossi pointed out. He tapped his temple, "It's all in the mind. What did he _think_ was going on?"

"I still don't see how any of this could ever be linked back to Reid," Callahan announced, setting her hands on her hips. "I mean, Reid has zero to do with anything like that. And he's been with the BAU for years, so it's not like he took somebody's place. And even if he _had_ , they waited a helluva long time to take action."

"Cruz mentioned that there was some kind of manifesto," Hotch admitted quietly. "However, when I suggested that Fuller was simply stalking Reid, he seemed very certain that it wasn't that."

"Maybe this Fuller guy _was_ stalking Reid—but his obsession reached a point where he simply believed that he was actually interacting with Reid on a physical basis," Morgan gave a slight shrug. "Obsessive types can very easily have problems distinguishing reality from fantasy—maybe he imagined that Reid was telling him to blow up the FBI. Perhaps even sending secrets messages, signs that only Fuller could interpret."

Hotch gave a slight shake of his head. "The level of precision and planning needed for this attack suggests a man who was fully grounded in reality."

"So Reid was implicated on purpose," Callahan reiterated. She ticked off the facts with her fingers. "His email was used to send a message to his deceased girlfriend's sister, further tying him to the crime."

"Which reminds me," Hotch turned his attention to Rossi. "Jordan Strauss—"

"I know, I know," David held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "I got her voicemail, once they gave me back my phone. I've already called her back and let her know that everything was alright, that she can stop playing detective now."

It was a slight lie, telling Jordan that they were all OK now, but a necessary one. She was already too deeply entrenched in this case, and Dave would be damned if he got one of Erin's kids into trouble with the Feds (Sweet Jesus in short-pants, she'd rise up from the grave to murder him if he ever allowed such a thing to happen—frankly, he was slightly surprised that he hadn't already been visited by her vengeful ghost). Jordan had also told him exactly how she'd come across the information, and he'd felt a pang of regret for Carrington and what would happen to her whenever Cruz found out. However, he couldn't shield Carrington from the consequences—and he also got the distinct feeling that the secretary had been fully aware of what she was doing when she took the risk in the first place.

"I need you to call her back," Hotch's voice was quiet. It was obvious from his expression that he didn't approve of Jordan Strauss' involvement in the least.

Not that David would have approved, either—if Jordan had actually let him have any say in the matter.

"We need to find Linnea Charles," Hotch continued. "Jordan claimed that she didn't know where Linnea was—but if she does know, she's more likely to tell you than me."

Rossi nodded in agreement, pulling out his cellphone and stepping into Garcia's kitchen (not that it made much of a difference, seeing as it was an open floor plan).

"Hey, Dave." Jordan sounded sheepish, so childlike that he had to remind himself that she was a full-grown adult.

"Hey, Dani, I need your help," he tried to keep his voice as open and gentle as possible.

"I, um—but I thought I wasn't supposed to help anymore?"

"I know. But Dani, we need to find Linnea Charles. And right now, you're the closest link we have to her."

"I told Agent Hotchner—I don't know where she is. That was part of the plan—she's supposed to remain unreachable, on purpose. So that if anyone looked into our phone calls or texts, they could see that she wasn't responding to me—it was meant to keep me safe, too, in case the FBI wanted me to help bring her in."

"Well, that backfired a bit, didn't it?" Rossi couldn't help himself.

"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't think this would—well, I guess I just didn't think. That's all."

"It's alright, kid. This is way out of your realm of expertise. No one's expecting you to make all the right moves—"

"No, they're just expecting me to do the one thing that I can't do—the one thing that could _actually_ help."

"Well, let's see what we can do. Did Linnea tell you where she was going, who she was going to see?"

"No. I know she went back to her office, but left for some kind of meeting—at least that's what the secretary said. Other than that, I have no clue."

"And the secretary didn't tell you where she was going, or who she was meeting with?"

"No. I'm not even sure it had anything to do with this case, even."

David Rossi was fairly sure that it did—Linnea was a reporter, and he didn't have to know her personally to know the type. To top it off, she was personally invested. She'd latched onto this story with both hands, and she wouldn't let go until she had answers. He was sure of that.

* * *

 _ **Earlier that day. John Adams' Office. The District Times Editorial Suite. Washington, D.C.**_

Linnea could instantly see why Johnny Adams had shown a slight sense of distaste at the mention of Todd Wilkes, the man who'd written the piece about the bombing—the man who somehow knew the exact moment of the big boom, an important and crucial detail.

If John Adams was the slightly-awkward-yet-affable Mr. Rogers of the newspaper world, then Todd Wilkes was the flashy and dashing Clark Gable—he was dressed to a tee, sleek and stylish with just the right dash of devil-may-care swagger. He smiled like a man who knew just how charming his smile was, and every move he made showed his obvious delight in being adored.

On principle, Linnea wanted to dislike him, for Johnny's sake. But Mr. Wilkes was a very easy person to like—because underneath the flash and dash, there was a man who genuinely seemed to care.

"Just call me Todd," he offered another winning smile, enthused with a warmth that seemed entirely authentic. Linnea briefly wondered why he hadn't gone into television reporting—he certainly had the bone structure for it.

"Just call me Linnea," she returned easily.

Whatever disapproval Johnny might have felt towards Wilkes' writing abilities or style certainly didn't show now—the older reporter seemed to understand that they all had their parts to play, and he was content with his own role in the workings of the world.

"So, you guys wanna tell me what all this hush-hush secrecy's about?" He glanced at both of them, still smiling in anticipation.

Linnea held up the newspaper. "How'd you know what time the blast went off?"

"I had the great luck of finding a witness who could also tell time," he offered smoothly. He was still smiling, but the open friendliness had been slightly deterred. He'd played this game enough times to sense when it was about to enter unpleasant territory. "Though I'm not sure why it matters to you—you obviously have a better insider than I do."

"Well that's where this gets interesting," Linnea admitted, shifting in her seat to look back at Johnny—after all, he was the one who'd truly wanted to know. She took a moment to study both of the men, mentally weighing whether or not to share the next bit of information—though knowing all the while that she really didn't have a choice, "You see, I did get an email, from an FBI insider….but apparently, it was sent to me at 7:59am."

Johnny was still looking at her in complete bewilderment. She placed the newspaper back on his desk, keeping her finger on the first line of the article as she gently pushed it closer to him.

"Oh my land," he leaned forward, his voice barely audible. "Five whole minutes before the explosion."

"Only if Todd's source is absolutely positive about that time frame," she turned back to Wilkes, who was equally shell-shocked.

The younger man held up his hands, "I can't swear to it—yeah, the person gave me the time, but she didn't—I mean, I didn't really take much time to truly verify that statement, because if it was off by a few minutes, who would know?"

She simply stared back at him, answering the rhetorical question with her mere presence.

"Holy shit," Todd leaned forward slightly, as if he'd lost the air in his lungs. "I mean, this could—you're both thinking what I'm thinking, right?"

"That you need to go back to your source and double-triple-quadruple check that time frame, without so much as breathing a word of suspicion to anyone else, including your source?" Johnny returned drolly. "Yes, that's exactly what we were thinking."

"Give me just a minute," Todd was on his feet again, hurrying to the door. "I've—I think I've got the number at my desk. It'll take just a second."

He was off like a shot. Once they were alone again, Johnny Adams turned his full attention back to Linnea, "Which brings us to the more important question—why the hell are you sitting in my office instead of giving this information to the FBI?"

"Because I needed to know for sure, Johnny."

"Bullshit. It's called a tip, you don't have to know for certain, you just have to know something."

"There's a lot more at play here—"

"I dare say there'd better be."

"Oh, come off it, Johnny. If I'd left it to the Feds and they'd come here to question him, what do you think would happen? What reporter would actually give up their source?" Linnea gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "I had a much better chance coming here, going mano-a-mano with Wilkes—which is exactly what happened, in case you weren't just in the room—"

"I'm old but not forgetful, Linny." He returned with a little bit of bite. "And I'll kindly remind you that with my old age comes many more years of experience in this field than you currently have. Don't try to be the hero here—that stuff's for dime-store novels and television dramas. This is real life."

Good lord, he sounded like her father. She resisted the juvenile urge to roll her eyes, taking the admonition with as much grace as she could muster.

Todd Wilkes re-entered the room, a scrap of paper in his hand. He didn't look particularly hopeful. If anything, he looked ill—he'd been playing fast and loose with a source, thinking it wouldn't come to light and hoping it wouldn't ever matter, and yet, here he was.

"The source was anonymous—she said she was too high up, didn't want to risk losing her job. Didn't give a name or any kind of callback number—but I had our switchboard trace the call, and this is the number they got."

"So…what? We just call her back?" Linnea was unsure of how to proceed. She'd assumed that Todd had some kind of rapport with his source, a way of getting back in touch that didn't arouse suspicion.

"I can, if that's what you want," Todd offered easily. He obviously wanted to help (and like any good reporter, he was curious to see how the story ended), but he also didn't want to take any kind of initiative that would seem too forward to Linnea. She felt a small measure of respect for him in that small act of deference.

"Yes, please do."

"Let's see where the rabbit hole ends," Johnny murmured, leaning forward again as he and Linnea silently watched Todd dial the number on his cellphone.

He gave a slight shake of his head—no answer. Still, he left a voicemail. "Hello, it's Todd Wilkes, from _The District Times_. I got your number from our operator—I hope you don't mind, but I just have a few more questions to ask you."

He left his number and ended the call.

"Well, what now?" He asked, almost deflated by the abrupt dead-end.

"She won't call back," Johnny decreed quietly, his voice edged with disappointed certainty. "Those types never do—too easily spooked."

He returned his attention to Linnea, "Which means you need to go to the FBI. Now."

Linnea nodded in agreement. However, she didn't leave right away.

"I…uh, I have the distinct feeling that I'm about to be in way over my head," she admitted. "There's…there's more that I haven't told you, and I'm the only one who knows—well, me and one other person, a Jordan Strauss. I think—I think someone else needs to know, just in case."

"Just in case of what?" Todd's face skewed into a look of concern.

"I don't know. Just in case, I guess." She looked back at Johnny, the one she truly trusted. "I realize that when it comes to letting people into the circle, I don't have a lot of options. So before I leave, I'm telling you everything, just…just to make sure that I'm not crazy, I guess—and to make sure someone else knows."

It sounded so hysterically dramatic, and yet, the absolute sincerity behind Linnea's words kept Johnny Adams from berating her for being sensational.

"Alright then," he opened his hands in a welcoming gesture. "Lay it out for us, Lin. Tell us what you know."

* * *

An hour later, Linnea Charles had explained as much as she could to Wilkes and Adams, and they'd even put together a sort of contingency plan (there were so many occurrences of the phrase _just in case_ , they'd probably beaten some kind of world record). Still, at least all three of them parted ways feeling some measure of reassurance.

It was ridiculous. It had to be. Things like this didn't happen in real life. Not to people like her. But then again, she never thought she'd be a woman whose sister was stalked and brutally murdered, whose mother died way too young, who'd left her glowing dream life to settle back down two miles from her parents' old house to care for her aging father. So maybe this _did_ happen to people like her.

Her heels clunked loudly in the cement-encased parking garage, the artificial lights giving the whole place a sickly yellow hue. It was still light outside, but you couldn't tell it from down here.

There was an SUV parked next to her car. A woman in workout gear, complete with a running toboggan, was busily cramming items into a large duffle bag.

At the sound of Linnea's footsteps, she looked around, almost as if caught off-guard.

"Oh, hello," she offered a smile, almost as if she was embarrassed by her reaction.

Linnea offered a smile in return—after all, she'd gotten pricked by that same vein of fear numerous times. How many abduction stories started in underground parking garages?

As Linnea moved around to her car, the woman spoke up again, "I'm sorry—but you…you look familiar to me. Do you work for the economic section?"

Linnea shook her head, "No, I don't work here at all. I'm a reporter for _The Washington Daily_ —maybe we've met at an event?"

"Maybe," the stranger simply smiled.

Linnea gave a slight smile of her own and turned back to her car.

The woman took a step towards her, and that's when Linnea knew that something was wrong.

The arm around her chest was quick and strong, pinning her left arm to her side. The woman's other elbow was firmly pressed against Linnea's right upper arm, disabling her from reaching up and pulling away the rag that was clapped against her mouth.

The sickly-sweet smell forcing its way through her nose and down her throat was enough to make her gag.

 _Chloroform_. She'd never smelled it before, but a lifetime of film and television told Linnea what was happening.

Except she didn't pass out right away, like they did in the movies.

However, she immediately felt the fight leave her limbs, entirely against her own will.

"There, there," the stranger was panting, obviously struggling to keep her hold on Linnea's body, which was slowly slumping to the floor.

The hand was gone from her mouth, but Linnea still couldn't do anything. She felt herself being dragged, saw the wildly changing scenery as she was lugged into the back of the SUV, but everything seemed so distant, so far removed from reality. Like the dreams you had between waking and sleeping, hazy and half-remembered and never fully there.

"Now, you sleep, darling." The stranger's voice was different now, something not the same…she should know….

A prick, in her arm—just like getting a shot.

A swirl of darkness. One last heavy noise.

Then nothing.

* * *

" _Those who play with fire should expect to be consumed by it."_

 _~Katie Macalister._


	9. Into the Trenches

**Into the Trenches**

" _Tough times don't last, tough people do, remember?"_ _  
~_ _Gregory Peck_ _._

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

"So, we can't know what we don't know," Kate Callahan offered, grimacing slightly at the syntax. "But we can work with what we do know—which means all we have to do right now is tackle the parts of the case that we do know about."

"Lotta 'knows' in there," Rossi commented dryly. This earned him a longsuffering look from his team member, who merely gave a helpless gesture of her hands ( _it's late and I'm still processing everything, 'kay, Rossi, gimme a break_ ).

"Wording aside, we get the point," Hotch assured her. "And I agree, it's the only logical place to start. If they're building a case against Reid, they'll use every bit of circumstantial evidence they can get. We need to account for Reid's every move in this investigation. Starting from the moment the blast went off."

They didn't have a whiteboard, but Penelope scrounged up some legal pads and Kate began scribbling down notes as they hastily constructed a timeline.

"You know, when you look at it on paper, Reid's reactions don't look so great," Morgan admitted. The words came out reluctantly, as if he hated to even speak them aloud. He glanced over at Rossi, who was seated on the other end of the couch.

Rossi gave a hum of agreement. "They make sense, but in the right light…they make sense in a much more ominous way."

"Behavior is up for interpretation, in every event of life," Hotch reminded them. "We need to stick to what can be definitively explained."

"The email," Kate piped up, her head down as she focused on the timeline in her lap. "It's a piece of evidence. Did they mention it, during the interrogation?"

Now she looked up at Hotch, as did almost everyone else in the room (the exception being Penelope, who was too deeply burrowed in "the interwebs").

"No," Hotch realized, slightly surprised. "I didn't stay for the whole thing—but while I was in there, I didn't hear any mention of it. That doesn't mean it wasn't addressed later on, though."

"We have to assume they've followed that rabbit trail already," Morgan spoke, and the rest gave curt nods of agreement.

David Rossi sat up slightly, "The question is: what did they find?"

Hotch didn't bat an eye, "Penelope."

"On it, sir."

He loved her all the more for not complaining about having to stop whatever other task she was currently engaged in.

"Let's make two assumptions," Derek Morgan motioned with his hands, laying out his points. "One, that the Flying Js might have overlooked it earlier, but they're definitely gonna check up on it."

"Even if they hadn't already done so, it would have been one of the first things Dawson had checked out, as soon as they returned from the crime scene," Hotch gave a curt not of agreement.

"What's the second assumption?" Callahan turned her attention back to Morgan.

"Linnea would've been savvy enough to spot a simple fake." He gave another sweeping motion with his hands. "She's a reporter, and what little we know of her indicates that she's a pretty smart cookie."

"So…what?" Callahan's voice was weighted with dread. "Are you saying that Reid actually _sent_ the email?"

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Time to call it a day, Sura," Jack entered the room with a tired sigh that seemed to emphasize his words. He tossed the manila folder back onto her desk. "Thanks for the email screenshots, by the way. I'd say that was what rattled him the most."

"Which seems ridiculous, when you think about it," Sura murmured. She hadn't even glanced up from her computer—despite her boss' orders to pack it in, she was still busily whirling away at her keyboard. "I mean, that was by far the easiest thing to trace back. Thirty seconds, tops—maybe ninety seconds, if you count in the time it took to get screenshots."

"Perhaps it was too easy," Jack commented.

Now she stopped, looking up at him in mild surprise. "What're you saying, Jack?"

He grimaced slightly. As if he'd been given a distasteful task. "I'm saying…is there any way that it can be a fake?"

"Technically, yes." Sometimes she found herself amazed at how uneducated people were in the world of technology. However, Sura Roza kept that particular line of commentary to herself. The man before her certainly didn't need any more grief. Not tonight.

"Explain the use of the word 'technically'."

"Well…anything can be made to look like something else," she gave a slight shrug. "Taking things at face value, yes, this email was sent from that phone."

"But it could have been sent from somewhere else?"

"Maybe. Possibly. I'll have to look into it." She offered a small smile, "I'm good to go for a few more hours, Jack. I don't mind—"

"No." He waved away the offer. "We're gonna have an early start tomorrow morning, and I'd prefer for everyone to have had a few decent hours' worth of sleep. Besides, Dr. Reid's already tucked in for the night—it isn't anything that can't hold until morning—"

"I'm sorry, I should've check into this earlier—"

"There were other things to look at." Again, he dismissed her attempted apology. With a slight smile, he offered, "But you can explain to me how it might not be exactly what it looks like on the ride back to the hotel."

"Deal," she returned his tired smile. Normally, she would dismiss his obvious hopes, curtly informing him that the likelihood of this email being something other than the straightforward explanation was minimal, but she found herself unable to. Tonight, he needed a ray of hope, some shadow of doubt.

She could give him that. Even if it meant ripping it back away from him tomorrow morning.

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

"I really, really hate it when you guys make me be the bearer of bad news," Penelope informed the rest of the team. "But yes, there's an email to Linnea Charles at _The Washington Daily_ in Reid's outbox."

The looks of dismay would've broken her heart, if it wasn't already shattered.

"OK," Morgan took a deep breath, setting his hands on his knees. "Time to add in another assumption."

"Remember what happens when you assume," Rossi intoned quietly.

Everyone in the room knew the rest of the famous adage— _when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me_. They'd all had it ground into their skulls since day one at the Academy.

"Right now, I don't see any other option," Morgan's voice betrayed his desperation. "We're grasping at straws here, stuck on the outside looking in as they throw god-only-knows-what at Reid."

"Assumptions aren't bad," Hotch quietly quelled whatever potential disagreement could be brewing between the two agents. "Let's just not stay married to them."

Morgan nodded in understanding before he began. "All of this has the mark of the Replicator on it. I don't care what O'Donnell says, it's as plain as day. Whoever this person is, he's trying to prove how much smarter he is. Trying to show us that he's the one calling the shots, the one who has all of our lives in the palm of his hand."

"And he's doing a helluva good job at it, so far," Callahan murmured. She distinctly felt the gazes of her three team members and instantly regretted her aside. Still, her regret didn't make her words any less true.

Hotch turned his stoic face back to Morgan. "So you're saying that whoever sent the email had to have done it in the smartest way possible. Not only to prove his intelligence, but also to cover his tracks. Because he knew that disproving its authenticity would be the first thing we did."

"Exactly." Morgan shifted in his seat, turning to place his elbow on the back of the couch as he gave Penelope Garcia his full attention, "Which means I need you to wrack that crafty little mind of yours and think of how you would do that."

Penelope gave an uneasy sigh at that request. "Then we're about to go down a very dark and very deep well, my love. How technical do you want me to get in my explanation?"

He offered a smooth smile, "Talk nerdy to me, Babygirl."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Look, I love you very much, but my brain is fried, so listen closely, because I'm only explaining this once," Sura Roza held up her hands, as if to ward off any pleas for mercy from her boss. They'd barely gotten into the vehicle, but she knew that Jack Dawson wasn't a man who liked waiting, and personally, she wouldn't mind having this all over as soon as possible. Not to mention, it was a short ride to the hotel, and there was a lot to explain in that time frame.

"There are two ways—well, probably more than two, but the others aren't nearly as plausible, so we'll stick with them. First: someone hacked into Spencer's email from another computer and sent the email. Adding the little 'sent from whatever phone' tagline could be a simple cut and paste job. I'll unravel that mystery tomorrow morning. In comparison, that's the relatively easy version."

Dawson wasn't so sure about that. He could work his email program just fine, but he wouldn't know the first thing about hacking into someone else's.

"Second—and this one is the real doozy—the email was actually sent from Reid's email app on his phone—"

"But how—"

"Remote access program. You can find them online, if you know where to look. People use them all the time to spy on spouses, unlock their teenager's private life, or monitor employees' GPS movements—"

"Is that legal?"

Sura's wry huff of amusement answered his question. "Now, here's where it gets sticky."

Again, Dawson mentally disagreed. They'd passed _sticky_ about ten miles back, in his book.

"For almost every kind of program like that, you have to have direct, physical access to the target's phone—just to install the app. So it's a one-time deal, but still…."

"It still means whoever installed it had to have some kind of close contact with Dr. Reid—and a time frame long enough to steal the phone without the doctor noticing, install the app, and return it," Dawson mused, his brow furrowing in incredulity. "But wouldn't the app show up in his menu? I mean, wouldn't he know it was installed?"

"No. A program like that hides itself. And I shouldn't have said app—it's more of a program."

"There's a difference?"

"Darling, it's a good thing you're cute." She was smiling, albeit tiredly. With a shake of her head, she continued, "I won't bog you down in the specifics, but understand we're talking about spyware. By design, it's meant to stay hidden. The only way a target would find the program is if they suspected there was something there, then went digging through their phone's program files."

Dr. Reid had professed to being "rather uninterested" in computers and related technology. This didn't sound like a move he could pull off, Dawson decided—hell, it wasn't even something _he_ could pull off, and he was pretty savvy with his iPhone.

Unless, of course, Dr. Reid was simply lying. That was always a possibility.

"How would you know to look for it in the first place?" Dawson was confused.

"Well, there are going to be signs—just like when your computer has a virus or spyware. You have to understand, this type of program would pull a lot of power and take up a lot of data. And your phone will start to complain about the heavier workload."

It was statements like that which reminded Dawson how weird his technical analyst really was.

"So, all you'd have to do is leave you phone unattended for a few minutes…" Dawson gave a small gesture with his hand to indicate the continuation of events.

"Pretty much, yeah." Sure flashed him a bright false smile. "Lovely thought, innit?"

"Here," he handed her the phone currently tucked into his shirt pocket. "Check mine. Make sure I don't have any of that."

She laughed. "You don't. No one would want to spy on you."

"You've never met my first wife."

This earned him another chuckle.

"Seriously, though. It's possible, right?" Dawson's voice warred between fear and hope. "Someone could've just walked up, taken Reid's phone—"

"And voilà? Yes. It's really that simple." However, Sura stopped for a moment, then added, "Of course, you've got the added layer of being able to actually _control_ the phone via remote access. That makes it a horse of a different color than most run-of-the-mill spy programs."

"So...what does that mean, exactly?"

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

"But here's where it gets hairy. Like hairier than we've currently been—like Saint Bernard hairy, got it? Like before, we were a short-haired terrier, and now, we're a Bearded Collie—"

"Garcia, I think we get the point," Hotch waved away the imagery with a slight air of frustration. The hour was late and patience was wearing thin.

"Yes, of course," she ducked her head at his tone, like a child being chastised by her father. "The thing is—well, technically, you could invent a program that didn't need direct access."

"A remote access program that can also remotely install itself?" Callahan's brows furrowed as she tried to stay on the current train of thought.

"Sweet Jesus in short-pants, it's becoming a James Bond film," Rossi muttered, looking up to the heavens in exasperation.

"No." Hotch's voice was certain. "It's becoming exactly something John Curtis would have done. If this UNSUB can build a program that perfectly suits his needs, there's no trail to follow—he hasn't downloaded it, hasn't searched for it online—and it only further proves how smart he is."

"But…how?" Morgan's face was filled with a look of utterly helpless confusion.

"Well, I can't say for certain, obviously, but if I were going to do it, I'd make sure we were on the same network—"

"Like the Bureau's wifi," Rossi supplied.

"Perfect example. Then I'd use the person's IP address—but that wouldn't work at Quantico, I don't think."

"You don't think?" Rossi seemed incredulous. In his world, all of this seemed like things that couldn't possibly ever work.

"No." Penelope frowned slightly, too drawn up in her own thoughts to notice his disbelief. "With devices like phones, you're almost guaranteed to have a different IP address every single time you come back into the building and reconnect to the wireless network."

"We don't need the specifics," Hotch held up his hands. "I think I can safely say that at this point, none of us would be able to accurately remember them, even if we did. We just need to know that it's possible."

"Oh, yeah, totally possible," the blonde gave an emphatic nod.

Rossi turned back to Hotch, his worn and tired face lined with caution. "Possible. But is it probable?"

His unit chief merely sighed. And everyone understood what it meant—they now lived in a world where anything was possible. Any dark, horrible, heart-breaking thing.

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

Dr. Candace Mellinger, better known as Candy to most of the world, held her clipboard tight against her chest as she leaned forward to inspect the woman who was currently her highest-risk patient in the intensive care unit.

Jennifer Jareau. A woman who by all accounts shouldn't be alive right now. Aside from the horrific traumas she'd experienced in the past two days—a three-story plummet in an elevator, multiple surgeries, and a series of seizures—her medical records indicated that she'd also suffered an array of physical injuries long before this.

Candy hadn't needed a medical chart to tell her that—she'd seen the marks on Jennifer's body during surgery prep. Those slick, shiny scars didn't need explanation. Candy knew what they meant.

There had been happy scars, too. Stretch marks from carrying the sweet, bubbly little ray of sunshine who'd stolen the ICU nurses' hearts whenever he came to visit his mother. Candy silently hoped that Jennifer focused more on those than she did the other ones. The others were certainly not attached to pleasant memories. Over the years, she'd treated enough victims of physical abuse to know. Sure, her specialty was the brain, but she'd had more women on her operating table who'd gotten there because a lover or spouse had finally hit too hard in the wrong spot on the skull than she'd care to admit.

Not that she thought Jennifer was a victim of domestic abuse. But torture was torture, and it didn't matter if you knew the hands doling out the blows or not. The body kept the tally marks, all the same.

The ward was quiet, visiting hours were over and the lights were as dim as they could get. For Candace Mellinger, walking through the ICU at this time of night was like walking through a church during a candlelight vigil. Only the most important things were illuminated—the pale and still faces of her patients, nothing more. They didn't always look peaceful, but as long as they didn't look in pain, Candy considered it a win.

You had to do that—learn how to take your lumps, how to lower certain standards to a more reasonable level. It was the only way you survived a job like this.

Jennifer stirred slightly, and Dr. Mellinger stopped her delicate inspection of her head wounds. She didn't want to wake her patient—heavens knew that the woman hadn't been resting as much as she should be.

The blonde's eyelids fluttered slightly, and she inhaled sharply, as if waking up. Her eyes didn't open again, but she mumbled, "Ros?"

Candy stood absolutely still.

"Ros, that you?" Jennifer was grimacing, trying to bring herself back into consciousness.

Candy glanced over at the IV drip. She slowly reached out, upping the dosage as she quietly intoned, "It's alright, just go back to sleep."

"What're you doing here, Ros?" Jennifer wasn't fully awake, but at least she was speaking—a good sign, neurologically. Her words were a little slurred, but that was more likely from the drugs slipping through her veins.

"I'm…I'm just checking on you," Dr. Mellinger didn't outright lie by calling herself Ros, whoever that was, but she didn't exactly declare her own self, either.

"Rosaline, you can't be here," Jennifer was becoming agitated. "I have to stay here, with Henry and Will. You can't…I can't go."

Now Candy frowned slightly, trying to understand Jennifer's words.

"I can't go with you. I can't." Jennifer was whimpering now.

"I know, I know," Candace leaned in again, gently resting her hand against Jennifer's cheek. "It's OK. I'm not gonna take you anywhere. I'm…I'm just here to make sure you're OK."

Now the patient gave a lazy, drugged smile. "You…always were a good big sister. Making sure I was OK. I wish you'd never gone away."

Jennifer Jareau was using the past tense. Candy suddenly understood. For whatever reason, Jennifer seemed to think she was communicating with her sister, who apparently was deceased.

No wonder the poor woman didn't want to leave—because leaving meant something much more metaphysical than simply walking out of the room.

"I'm so sorry," Candace Mellinger was fully aware of how ethically wrong she was in this moment, pretending to be a patient's dead sister, but at the same time, she couldn't allow herself to do anything else. "I'm sorry I left. But I'm here now. I'm here, making sure you're OK. Just like always. But you have to stay here—you have to stay here, for Henry, for Will, for Mom and all the others. Will you promise me? Will you promise to stay?"

Jennifer gave a hum that seemed to be a form of agreement. Her words had been getting heavier and harder to understand, and now she was fully slipping back into sleep.

Dr. Mellinger didn't regret her role in this charade, or even her blatant use of Jennifer's sister's memory to evoke a promise of survival. Because in the end, Jennifer Jareau would keep her promise, whether she ever even remembered making it or not.

Trauma be damned. Ethical quandaries be damned. Jennifer Jareau was going to live. And Candace Mellinger was going to help her, in whatever way she could.

* * *

" _So far, about morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after."_ _  
_ _~Ernest Hemingway_ _._


	10. Regrets and Laments

**Regrets and Laments**

" _Doing the right thing for someone else occasionally means doing something that feels wrong to you."_ _  
_ _~Jodi Picoult_ _._

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

Will LaMontagne looked at the faces in front of him with the kind of tired defeat that comes from utter fatigue, the kind that seeps into the bones and soul. Sandy had left earlier that morning to pick up Henry from Penelope's, and Hotch and Rossi had appeared in the hospital waiting room to tell him about Spencer Reid's arrest the previous night.

His taxed-out brain was still calibrating, still trying to process everything.

"I…I can't tell JJ about this," he admitted heavily, looking at the two men for some kind of support. "She can't handle it right now—and Henry, he can't know—"

"He doesn't," Rossi assured him gently. "And there's no need to tell JJ about any of this yet—which means the hard part falls to you. You're the one who knows, who has to go in there and pretend like everything's fine."

"What should I tell her? You know she's gonna ask how the case is going." Will had aged a decade in the past three days, and it showed in every line of his face.

"Tell her that they've got a suspect," Hotch offered. "It isn't a lie."

Will nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"I'll tell her that y'all came to see her, too—the whole team," he added.

"Tell her that we can't wait to have her back," Hotch's voice was gentle, lined with compassionate sincerity. "And once she's back in a real room, the nurses will have to drag us out."

Will grinned at the mental image—in part because he knew it wouldn't be far from the truth. Life with Jennifer Jareau included the continual threat of having their house overrun by her nest of adopted siblings who also happened to be her work colleagues. Right now, Will wouldn't have it any other way. Orphaned and uprooted to a completely different region of the country, he'd arrived to D.C. as a stranger in a strange land, as the old saying went—JJ and Henry had been his reason for moving, his only family left in the world, but the BAU had quickly made him feel like part of a greater whole, part of some big extended family. Granted, he had his own colleagues, who'd also been supportive and helpful, and although there were even a few he considered friends, none had reached the level of feeling like family, like the way JJ was with her team.

"Hang in there," Rossi pulled him into a hug, only further reinforcing Will's concept of the BAU.

"I would say keep me posted, but I feel like I'm better off not knowing," Will admitted. "Besides, I've got enough to worry about on this front. But I will say this—find this bastard and give 'im hell, will ya?"

"Without a doubt," Rossi informed him. With one last round of farewells, the two agents headed back down the hall. Once they were out of earshot, the Italian quietly asked, "So what's our next move, boss?"

"We need to have a look at that evidence—we can't really start fighting back until we know what we're up against," Hotch admitted, his dour expression belying the fact that he didn't have much faith in their chances.

"I hate to admit it, but I don't think Mac's gonna let us have a go at it," Rossi tucked his hands into his pockets. "That woman's a stickler for rules—too much professional integrity."

Hotch didn't miss the note of admiration in his colleague's voice. Nor did he forego the chance to gently prod, "So when are you going to admit that there's something going on between you two?"

"When there's something actually going on between us, I suppose," the older man returned nonchalantly. "Which there isn't."

"Currently."

"Really? You want to play this game now?"

"Well, obviously Mac does," Hotch didn't even attempt to hide his smirk as he walked out the front door of the medical center. "Or else she wouldn't have planted that very enthusiastic kiss on you yesterday afternoon."

David Rossi actually stopped walking, staring at his boss in utter shock.

Hotch turned back to him, "What? It was out in the open, and I happened to be standing by a window in the MCC van."

"And did you share what you saw?" Rossi's brow lifted in critical questioning. He was moving again, making his way back to his car.

"Of course not." Hotch allowed himself another grin as he opened the passenger door. "I'd be a bad blackmailer if I gave away all my information for free."

Despite the heaviness of current events, David Rossi had to laugh.

* * *

 _ **Evidence Lab, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Jeff Masterson had dutifully and stoically accepted the fact that every major event in his career as a federal agent was forever going to be accompanied by the sound of generators, with the grace and longsuffering of a martyr. That didn't stop him from absolutely hating the sound, no matter how quiet it seemed.

There had been generators in Nairobi, at the mall that had been bombed by jihadists. There had been generators on the ninth floor, where he'd spent the last few days meticulously picking up bits of evidence from the rubble. And now, there were generators here, in the lab, where he and Roe would be locked away for hours and days on end, like new-age miller's daughters, trying to weave straw into gold—although in their case, they were trying to pull an evidentiary narrative from stacks and stacks of data. And no little Rumpelstiltskin would ever appear to magically do it all for them.

Now that the blast site had been fully vetted by the evidence recovery team, workers were going up to cap off any open wires and repair any damage that could start an electrical fire, before resupplying power back to the main building. Jeff held on to the hope that they could achieve this as quickly as possible, thereby eliminating the need for the generators and their constant metallic whirring. It was the only thing that kept him sane.

All thoughts of sanity and generators were immediately abandoned the moment that Macaraeg led them into their own section of the evidence lab, which currently housed all of the confiscated contents from Benjamin Fuller's house.

"Whoa," was Rowena Lewis' response, her hazel eyes the size of saucers. "Mac, how did you load all of this up in a single night?"

"With the help of some eager young things," their unit chief gave a quick wink. She'd slept like the dead the night before, and within a matter of hours, she would be in Madison, Wisconsin, watching her only child graduate from college. Perhaps she should be a little less excited about it, but she'd decided that since there was so much darkness in the world, she shouldn't feel guilty about what few moments of happiness life did afford.

She pointed to various parts of the room, mapping out what each collection of items was, and their corresponding significance. She added, "O'Donnell's offered to send in some additional help, but there's a certain section that can only be handled by us three."

Curiosity instantly appeared in her colleagues' faces.

Mac led them over to the long set of metal tables, which held almost two dozen large plastic evidence tubs. With a heavy sigh, she patted the one of the lids, "These are from Fuller's library. Some of them are just notebooks from school, from classes at the Academy—nothing big, but I'd still like you to comb through them. But first, I want you to go through the containers labeled nineteen through twenty-one. Those are the goldmines, so far. They're Fuller's personal journals."

Roe gave a sudden hum of understanding—obviously, it made sense to go for the items that you knew would provide some kind of evidence.

"Now, here's the thing," Mac ducked her head for a moment, worrying her thin lips between her teeth. She turned back to her two team members, trying to remain as detached as possible. "I didn't tell you this last night because—well, because I knew it wouldn't be welcome news, and this is a fact that has to be kept in utmost confidence. And, I wanted to tell you face to face. Personally, I haven't had the time to read through all of these—no one has, not entirely—but last night, Agent Dawson and Agent Eden found several entries implicating Spencer Reid as a collaborator in the bombing."

"That's bullshit." The words flew out of Rowena's mouth.

"Right now, that's a fact," Mac reminded her, arching one brow in unspoken warning. "And right now, our job is to treat these journals as absolute truth—until we can find something that corroborates with an opposite narrative. Our job isn't to interpret the evidence—we just collect it, and document it for the investigating team, without bias. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jeff gave a curt nod of understanding. Obviously, they had personal feelings about this development, but the determination in his gaze informed his unit chief that it wouldn't stop them from doing their job. "We'll do what needs to be done."

"That's all I needed to hear," she informed him. She spared a sympathetic glance for Rowena, "For what it's worth, I don't want to believe it either. But we can't let our personal desires have any kind of influence on the work we're doing here. I'll be gone until very late tonight, and I am trusting both of you to uphold the integrity of this Bureau—and the integrity of this unit in particular. You don't share what you find with anyone other than O'Donnell or Dawson, or one of Dawson's team. Got it?"

Two heads bobbed in agreement. Mac was satisfied.

"Good. Now, I've got a plane to catch." She offered one last smile, one that implied her faith in them and their abilities. "Try not to be too brilliant while I'm away—don't wanna make me look like a slacker."

"Aye, boss." Jeff grinned as she moved past them, back towards the lab entrance.

"And," she turned back to them, her amber eyes filled with regret. "I am sorry. For both of you. I really am."

* * *

 _ **Somewhere between D.C. and Quantico.**_

"So…can you at least tell me what I'm supposed to be apologizing for, just so I know where to begin?" Derek Morgan kept his eyes on the road ahead, but every fiber of his being was focused on the reaction of the blonde woman seated next to him. Last night, before the BAU team had finally left Penelope's place, Morgan had been able to convince Penelope to let him drive her to Quantico in the morning, to retrieve her car.

Of course, if he were honest, he could admit that it was less about the car and more about finding a moment to be alone with his Babygirl—alone and forced to stay in the same space, no matter how ugly things got. It made him feel horrible, resorting to such tactics, but the clawing need to know what was going on and to fix it as quickly as possible overpowered his guilt.

Penelope didn't seem shocked by the question, which only furthered the sense of foreboding in Derek's veins.

She let out a light sigh, "It's not—you haven't done anything wrong, Morgan—"

"Then why the hell have you been giving me the oh-mister-you're-in-the-doghouse-now treatment?" He tried to be playful, to do anything to alleviate the oppressive air that had filled the cab of his truck ever since Penelope had climbed inside.

"I…I don't know." The helpless tremor in her voice ripped at his heart.

"Babygirl, please talk to me. Please—I don't even know what else to ask, or how to ask, I just…I just know I can't go without you talking to me."

It was a sweet sentiment, and if it were coming from someone else someplace else, it might even be seen as swooningly romantic—but this was Derek Morgan, and Penelope knew that he didn't harbor any feelings like that for her.

"Do you ever listen to the way we talk to each other?" She asked, slightly redirecting the conversation.

"All the time."

"And what do you think about it?"

"About what? Penelope, we've had this conversation before—this is how we talk, and there's nothing wrong with it. It's our language— _ours_ , something we don't have with anybody else—"

"And doesn't that seem a bit strange?"

"Why should it be strange?" His face quirked into an expression of confusion. "It's us, being us. Nothing more natural in the world."

"Let me rephrase that: why wouldn't you talk this way with anybody else?"

"Because…nobody else is you."

Sometimes the man was too damn sweet for his own good. Still, Penelope had a point to make. "No, Derek—because nobody else is safe."

He didn't respond, didn't take his eyes off the road, but she could tell that he was actively listening to every word that she said. So she continued, gingerly, "Derek, you're a gorgeous guy—"

"And you're a pretty hot ticket yourself—"

"That was not the point, and please don't distract me. The point is, when a guy like you walks up to a girl and says those kinds of things…women tend to take you seriously." Penelope took a deep breath. "Except for me. I know…I know you mean them, in a way, but you don't _mean_ them."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—whoa. I don't _mean_ them? Babygirl, I mean—"

"I'm not saying that you're lying, or being…whatever. I'm saying that when you tell me that you love me, when you call me your girl—you mean it, of course you do….but you don't mean it _that_ way." She held her breath, waited for the words to sink in. When he didn't reply, she gently continued, "And I know it's the same way with me—I can be as openly flirtatious with you as I want to be, and I know at the end of the day, you're not waiting to ask me out and make an honest woman out of me or any of that crap. We're…safe, for each other. We can joke and say deep, soul-baring things that normally only people in romantic relationships say to one another, and it's OK, because we both know….we both know what it is. And whatever it is, it's been the basis of a pretty solid friendship for over a decade now, and it works, and I'm not saying that I want to change it, not in the least, I just…."

"You just what?" He held his breath as he waited for an answer.

"I don't want to change it, but I think we should."

He felt his heart stop for a full beat. Now he turned to look at her, the shock and the hurt evident upon his face. "But…why?"

"Because," she offered a small smile, still trying to be as delicate as possible. "Because we know what this is….but others don't. Sam didn't, not really—and I'm sure there are at least moments when Savannah isn't sure, either, and…and she doesn't deserve the uncertainty. I don't want our friendship to be the reason that you spend the rest of your life alone."

"First of all, I'm not alone—I am living with Savannah, in case you forgot," Derek Morgan was back in command-mode, trying to handle this situation before it got completely out of hand. "Second of all, even if I end up without a girlfriend or a wife or whatever, I won't ever be alone. I'll still be with you."

"Yes, but not _with_ me," she pointed out quietly. "And you deserve a full-package deal. We both do."

He took a moment to choose his words before he actually spoke, "Penelope. I understand where you're coming from, I really do. I'm just not sure why it's happening now—unless Sam said something that's messing with your head. And if that's the case, I will gladly go to him and set the record straight—"

"I don't think that you showing up to defend my honor against my ex-boyfriend is going to send the right message," she informed him wryly. This time when he glanced over, he saw the beginnings of a smile on her face, and he felt a flutter of hope in his chest.

"I just don't want this…whatever this is happening between us right now," he admitted quietly. By now, they were nearing Quantico, which seemed eerily abandoned in the early morning hour. "Because I _do_ love you, and I _don't_ want to live without you in my life, Penelope Garcia. I've had enough trauma this week—I don't want to lose my best friend as well."

"You haven't lost me," she assured him, reaching out to pat his arm. "I just…I don't want you to lose other parts of your life, just by keeping me around."

"You're worth the sacrifice," he returned without a second's hesitation.

Oh, this sweet, darling man. He still didn't get it. Penelope knew that this conversation would have to happen several more times—they had more baggage to unpack, more items to discuss and sort through. For now, she'd let the matter rest. Derek Morgan responded best when he was given time to ease into things, she knew that from a decade of experience.

So she easily changed the subject, "Can we just take a moment to acknowledge the fact that Sir _Hotch_ was the one who called Emily multiple times over the past two days? And that she's on her way here now?"

Derek Morgan gave a victorious laugh, "I know! I am telling you, the predictions we've made about those two are going to come true, one way or another."

He wasn't a stupid man. He understood this for what it was—a deflection, a momentary flash of respite from whatever quagmire they were wading through. But he'd take it, even if it was only for a moment. Rest when you can, fight when you have to—Penelope Garcia wasn't done, and he knew he'd need all of his strength to continue talking her off the ledge. For now, he'd enjoy a moment of simply being who they were supposed to be.

"Maybe they just need a little push," Penelope suggested. "I mean, we'll have them on the same continent again—not actually working together in a professional capacity…."

"So maybe we can encourage some kind of very _unprofessional_ liaison?" Derek guessed with a sly grin, which only made his passenger erupt into laughter. Many years ago, after a few too many drinks, they'd made a mental list of the perfect pairings for each of their coworkers—JJ was out of the running, Rossi and Reid had gone to non-team members, but Hotch and Prentiss had been paired up. And honestly, Derek and Penelope had been rooting for that head canon ever since.

"If anyone can make it happen, it's us," he informed his best friend, who nodded in vigorous agreement.

"So, step one: get Reid out of the slammer. Step two: get Hotch and Emily on the love boat," Penelope surmised.

"That would be the plan, to a tee," he gave a nod of approval.

The playful banter continued, each trying so hard to seem truly recovered, for the sake of the other. But deep down, they both wondered if they'd look back on this morning as the day that their rock-solid friendship began to crack.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Dora Carrington bowed her head, taking one last deep breath before getting out of her car. She was playing a losing hand this go-round, but she'd play it til the cards ran out.

Cruz wasn't an idiot. It wouldn't take him long to know that there'd been some kind of leak—Jordan had refused to tell her what she was doing next, but Carrington could easily guess that it ended with the BAU being aware of Reid's arrest. And once that happened, the next logical question was: _who told you?_

As soon as she entered the room, she knew that he knew. The look of heartbroken devastation on Mateo Cruz's face was so blatantly evident that even a blind man could see it.

He rose to his feet, his voice barely a whisper as he said, "Dora, we need to talk."

She merely nodded, not trusting her vocal chords or the sudden tears that sprung to her eyes.

This was it then. So anticlimactic, given the stakes, given the fear and the stress surrounding it all, given the years of her life that she'd dedicated to this place, given the gravity of what she'd done.

But Cruz was a good man, a kind man—she knew that, and perhaps that had even fueled her resolve to betray him in the first place. She'd known that whatever happened, he wouldn't be cruel or unjust.

They walked down the hall, into another empty room.

"Why did you do it?" He didn't even bother asking if she'd done it—they both knew.

"I…I'm not sure I can put it into words," she admitted, her voice shaking just as much as her hands. There was a sick feeling in her stomach, like how she'd felt just before coming out to her parents, when she was certain that her confession was going to ruin whatever hopes or pride they had in her.

"Try. Please." He looked up at her now, settling against the edge of an empty desk. He was a judge, wanting an explanation from the criminal before passing down his sentence.

"I—I did it before I realized what I was doing. I saw what was happening to Dr. Reid and I—I was so shocked, I just needed to tell someone what I'd seen, to know it was real. So I called Jordan."

"Why her?" Cruz looked genuinely curious.

"She cares about Dr. Reid. They're friends."

"Same applies to his colleagues at the BAU."

"Yes, but…I didn't think she'd do something about it—well, that's a lie, I suppose deep down, I knew she'd do something, she's Jordan, it's how she is, who she is—but I just." She suddenly stopped. Then she looked up, directly into her boss' face, taking a deep breath. Gone was the bumbling girl, in her place stood a woman owning her actions. "I felt helpless. And I was tired of feeling helpless. So I tried to do something good—something I knew was the right thing to do."

"And do you still feel like that was the right decision?"

"Honestly, I can't say. But I can say that I don't regret it. I know how this will end for me—if I'm lucky, I'll just be fired, and if I'm not, I'm facing possible criminal charges. And I am sorry that I put you in this position, but…but I'm not sorry that I did it."

He took a moment to study her. "Why not?"

"Because regret's useless. It keeps you focused on the past, which you can't change, instead of the present, which you can." There was a slight quiver of emotion as she added, "Chief Strauss taught me that."

An unreadable look passed over his face. Quietly, he admitted, "I'm never going to be what Chief Strauss was to you, am I?"

"No, sir." He actually saw the young woman blink back tears.

"That's why you chose Jordan—she's your last connection to Erin."

No response. But he didn't need one—the answer was a plain as day. With a heavy sigh, Cruz pushed himself back onto his feet.

"I'm not going to charge you with anything, Dora. But I can't possibly let you stay."

"I understand, sir." Those words were easier to force out of her throat than she'd expected them to be.

He simply stared at her for a moment, the distress on his face tugging at her already-fractured emotions.

"I trusted you, Dora. The way that Erin trusted you. I depended on you, just like she did."

She simply offered an apologetic smile. The unspoken answer was understood between them.

 _You trusted me, but I didn't trust you—not the way I trusted Erin. You're a good man, but you weren't good enough._

He returned to an air of all-business. "I will contact you to let you know when you can collect your personal belongings from the office, which might be a few days, given the circumstances. I'm not voiding your credentials—not until all of this is sorted. That kind of thing in a time like this raises questions, and personally, I don't want to deal with all that. I'm hoping that you won't abuse that favor."

"I won't," she was quick to assure him. "I won't come back until you tell me to."

He stopped at the door, turning back to her one last time, "You know, it would've been so much easier to bear, if you'd had some kind of ulterior motive. But it all boils down to my character, and how you see me. Not an easy thing to accept."

"Sir," her voice caught with emotion. "Sir, you are a good man. A good boss, but more importantly, a good man. I didn't do it out of spite or contempt—honestly, I wasn't thinking of you at all—"

"I know." He interrupted gently. And again, the rest was unspoken but understood.

 _You were too busy thinking of a dead woman—someone who didn't even need you anymore, not like I did_.

He opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Carrington slumped into a nearby chair. This wasn't how her life was supposed to be. This wasn't who she was—some reckless, love-starved woman who ruined her career and jeopardized the course of justice for the approval of a daughter of a dead woman whom she'd once admired.

In a few minutes, she'd walk back to her car, drive back to her house in the suburbs, and start trying to sort out the absolute trainwreck that had become her life. But for now, she'd simply sit here and weep. Though she couldn't say why or for what she was weeping, not in the least.

* * *

" _Occasionally we all do wrong things from right motives. Only time can prove us right or wrong. The past is the past. Nothing can change it now, and who is to say that it was all wrong, anyway?"_ _  
_ _~Mary Balogh_ _._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: I'd like to take a moment to ask two (sort of similar) favors of you all. First, big huge CONGRATS! to Angela, who writes for this site under the pen-name Annber03 (and who happens to be an AMAZING writer, if you haven't had the chance to read her work, you absolutely should), and who has been picked up by SpoilerTV to review the current season of Criminal Minds! If you miss an episode, or maybe have a few lingering questions about this week's episode, or just want to read some really brilliant and often laugh-out-loud hilarious observations about it, this is the place to go, and she's the gal to read. So the favor I'm asking is that you DO go visit her on the SpoilerTV site and give a review, if you like what you read! (Spoiler alert: you totally will.)**_

 _ **Second favor: for those of you who've read my other work "Out of Africa" (and for those of you who haven't—for shame, I say!), I'm asking that you help me out, here. That particular story is currently in a fandom competition on Inkitt. I generally don't enter competitions or otherwise solicit votes, but hey, here we are. If you enjoyed that story, I'm asking you to please vote it up on the Inkitt site. Please note voting ends Oct 21, 2015. (Side note: Soon I'll be posting some of my other non-fanfic based stories on that site as well, under the pen-name MarvelousMadMadamMim. Please consider yourself cordially invited to check it out).**_

 _ **And a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has supported my work so far. The best part of storytelling is actually sharing the story, and you've all made story-sharing a wonderful experience. Thank you, from the bottom of my ink-stained heart.***_


	11. Turn Around, Bright Eyes

**Turn Around, Bright Eyes**

" _I've got my eyes on you. You're everything that I see. I want your heart, love, and emotions. I can't get over you. You left your mark on me."_

 _~Drake._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: This first section has references to two other stories I've written: Remains of the Day (re: Hotch's habit of tracing designs on Emily's back), and Out of Africa (re: Hotch and Emily's discussion over how to handle being in the field together, which you can find in the final chapter, and Emily and Penelope's "Team Penemily" t-shirts and photos, which were also mentioned in this story's prequel). Also, random side note: Mika Kimanthi is first introduced in Out of Africa as well.***_

* * *

 _ **Reagan National Airport. Washington, D.C.**_

Ye gods, Emily Prentiss' stomach could've won a gold medal for gymnastics, with all the flipping it was currently doing. She was clutching the leather straps of her go-bag so tightly that she was beginning to lose feeling in her knuckles, but it was the only thing that kept her entire body from shaking like a leaf.

She'd been one of those lucky souls who wasn't really affected by jetlag—one trait for which she could truly thank her mother, she supposed. But the stress of the inquest, followed by the dehydrating effects of alcohol and then coupled with a new stressor and very few hours of sleep, was a veritable cocktail of fatigue.

Of course, she told herself that her nerves were simply from all of these factors.

Of course, she knew that she was lying.

The actual source of those nerves was waiting for her at the baggage claim entrance, looking so indescribably like himself and all the things she'd always loved and missed about him that a vice gripped her heart and her throat.

Aaron Hotchner noticed Emily Prentiss approaching, and he couldn't stop himself from staring. She was a ball of frenetic energy, with shining eyes and a face that warred between delight and concern—delight at seeing him again (he hoped), and concern at the reason for their reunion. When she met his gaze, she actually blushed, and any kind of defense he might have had against this woman crumbled entirely.

This time, he didn't have to hide how he felt—Rossi had accompanied him to the airport, but the older man had decided to wait in the car (and inwardly, Hotch was grateful to his friend, because he knew that Dave was trying to give them a moment alone before they launched back into the whirlwind). They were just two people, meeting in an airport. No need for pretenses.

If Emily had any doubts of how to act around her former boss and current something-else, she lost them the second that he started moving towards her (really, she lost most of her thoughts entirely). She dropped her go-bag and found herself wrapped up in his arms as easily as she'd taken her next breath. His lips were on her neck, a quick warm kiss that no one else saw, another secret to be shared between them. She returned the affection by burrowing her forehead into the crook of his neck, giving a soft hum as she took in his warmth and his scent.

"You're OK," were her first words to him, so filled with relief that he simply held her tighter in reassurance.

"We are." It was a slight lie. Obviously, the team wasn't entirely OK.

"What can I do?" She hadn't moved, hadn't let him pull away from her, not even an inch.

"Just being here is enough," he informed her gently, and he meant every word of it. How many times had he faced another tough case, another dark moment, and had found himself wishing for Emily's presence? Of course, he couldn't tell her such things—it would seem needy, or as if he were trying to make her feel guilty for leaving, or worse yet, for not abandoning everything in London to come back to him, after the things that had happened in Nairobi. Emily Prentiss had experienced enough guilt in her lifetime—he certainly wouldn't add any more to her plate.

His hands were gently tracing designs into her back—the way he'd done the night of JJ's wedding, when they'd danced together for the first and last time. Jesus, this man could wreck her in the most mundane of ways. If she allowed herself to stay like this a few seconds longer, she'd probably be lost forever.

So she pulled back, keeping her arms around him as she took a moment to study his face, trying to find her way back to safer ground. "When's the last time you slept?"

"There's this wonderful invention called coffee," he explained easily, disengaging from her embrace and stooping to pick up her go-bag.

She laughed at the quip, gently pulling her bag out of his hand—even in this, she couldn't allow the dynamics of their original relationship to change. There was so much she could—and had—survived, but the man's tenderness would always be the death of her.

However, he didn't let go of the bag—he merely pulled the handle, bringing her closer to him again. She was immediately serious, her dark eyes searching his face, filled with a cautious expectancy.

The last time they'd met up, it had been to rescue JJ. Afterwards, she'd gently chided him for not giving her a proper greeting—for not taking a moment to move away from the others and quietly acknowledge what they were to each other (whatever that was). He'd promised to do better next time—and Aaron Hotchner was a man of his word.

He reached up, gently tracing the outlines of her face with his fingertips. Her lips parted slightly, taken off-guard by the reverence of his touch. His eyes never left hers as he pulled her in and kissed her, quietly and deeply, like a man returning to home after a long journey, relearning the rooms and corners of her mouth.

Emily Prentiss was certain that she couldn't blame fatigue or alcohol or jetlag for the current quivering in her knees.

However, she was also certain that Hotch needed to know just how much she'd missed him in return, so her free hand shot up, slipping through his hair as she pulled him deeper in, with just enough force to say, _god, I've missed you_.

He gave a small hum of agreement, and the sound reverberated into her chest, where her heart skittered and lost track of its rhythm. Her mind raced through all the other small sounds she'd heard him make, in all the times they'd been tangled together in the most intimately satisfying of ways, and she physically had to squeeze her eyes shut to block out the litany of the images and memories that followed.

He shouldn't be able to do that. He shouldn't be able to short-circuit her brain and her heart with such a simple, ordinary sound. It just wasn't fair.

She kept him close to her for a few beats more, foreheads touching, noses lightly brushing, sharing the same breath. It was a bubble of a moment, a fleeting respite from the world and the reality that still awaited them on the other side. Her hand slipped from the back of his neck to lightly trace the outline of his shirt collar, unnecessarily re-straightening his tie (and that's when she thought of Spencer again, and felt a pang of guilt for taking the time to savor Aaron Hotchner when she should be busy rescuing her friend).

Aaron felt her shift in emotion, and he wasn't quite sure what it meant, but he could hazard a guess. Mainly because he felt a similar zap of self-reproach as well (though he didn't truly regret it, not now, not ever—he _needed_ this, needed her, needed a moment to feel balanced and reset before jumping back into the fray). With a light sigh, his hand gave her upper arm a comforting rub, as if gently waking her from the dream of the moment.

As they moved farther apart again, they both exchanged sheepish smiles.

"I did mention that it's good to see you, right?" He feigned uncertainty, and she laughed, the nerves and awkwardness seeping out of her bones once more.

"Not in so many words, but I think I got the message," she admitted with a grin.

"Rossi's in the car," he explained. "Everyone's anxious to see you."

She nodded, silently accepting the fact that they were currently slipping back into their outer personas, the two colleagues who thought very highly of each other and nothing more.

She easily matched his pace, their long strides quickly traversing the open space of the baggage claim. "So, when can I see Reid?"

The automatic doors whooshed open, and Hotch frowned as they stepped outside into the early morning sunshine. "I'm not sure. Dawson technically hasn't informed us that we aren't able to be part of the investigation, so I don't know where we stand, officially. There's supposed to be a briefing at eleven, and I've no idea if we're invited."

"Well, you could always just show up. The worst that could happen is that they send you home."

Hotch made a small noise of agreement. "We're hoping Penelope can find something for us to bring to the table—something to definitively prove that Reid isn't connected to the bombing."

"Or at least connected in the way that they think he is," Emily corrected easily. "Obviously, he's connected to this."

He couldn't argue with that point—regardless of Spencer Reid's original place in this drama, he certainly was center stage now.

He could feel the sudden shift in Emily's demeanor before he even glanced over to see the grin on her face. Obviously, she'd spotted David Rossi.

"There she is," Dave was out of the car, arms open as he came towards her, his face alight with adoration. He enveloped Emily into a hug. "Glad to see you, gattina."

 _Gattina_ , little cat. His favorite nickname for her—Emily Prentiss, the girl with nine lives. Inevitably, she felt a prick of nostalgia at the moniker, smiling softly as she held him.

"Wish it were under different circumstances," she admitted quietly.

"Me, too." He took her bag and tossed it into the trunk of his car. "But if there's one thing I've learned in life, we don't get to pick and choose the hows and whys of it."

"Sometimes I forget what a philosopher you can be," she informed him drolly, which only made him grin.

"Missed you, too, Emily," he came back to give her one last quick pat on the back. "Now tell me, how the hell did you convince Clyde Easter to let you come running back to us?"

* * *

 _ **Interpol Branch Office. London, England.**_

On a good day, Clyde Easter wasn't the cuddliest man in the world. Or the most bearable. On a bad day, he was often described in terms that were completely unrepeatable amongst polite company.

Today was not a good day.

Yesterday had seen the closure of an inquest, which had basically held him hostage at the London office, instead of overseeing some important matters at Interpol's General Secretariat headquarters in Lyons, France. Since London was directly under his purview, he was obligated to stay—although he'd had nothing to do with the actual mission that had been under inquest. It had been a waste of time, in his book, and he wasn't a man who had time to waste.

He'd spoken to Emily Prentiss before they'd both left for the evening. He'd quietly informed her that she was beginning to look over-tired (and she'd received that comment as pleasantly as any woman would have, he supposed) and that perhaps she needed to take a few days off to rest and recuperate. It was a suggestion made as a friend and also as a smart boss—Emily was one of his best and brightest, but if she couldn't function at her highest levels, then she was of little use to the agency or her position within it.

She'd merely nodded, though he'd gotten the distinct feeling that she wasn't going to actually consider his advice, in typical Emily fashion.

He'd gone back to the rental he kept nearby, took a sleeping pill and made the grave mistake of putting his phone on silent for the night—it was always a gamble, allowing yourself to be unreachable when your job was directly tied to the security of the world, but he'd needed a single night of uninterrupted rest, and he'd figured that if there was a dire emergency, someone would be sent to his flat to retrieve him.

That had been an unwise decision on his part. Because again, in typical Emily fashion, Prentiss had disappeared in the night, leaving a voicemail citing some kind of dilemma with her old team from the Bureau. As someone who kept a finger on the pulse of all major world news, Clyde was well aware of the current disaster at Quantico (in fact, he'd been the one who had alerted her of the incident—an action which he was currently regretting), and the BAU's involvement didn't surprise him in the least (they were always in the middle of something, those people), but he hadn't expected it to sneak into his life and drag away his branch chief.

Mika Kimathi had already been installed in Prentiss' office by the time that Clyde arrived the next morning. As usual, the Kenyan-born English-raised agent was handling things with ease—over the past few years, he'd become Prentiss' unofficial second-in-command, and from time to time, he'd looked after the office while Prentiss was away. That part hadn't worried Clyde in the least.

The fact that Emily had been able to skip town so quickly—and on a plane flown by a pilot who was a regular contract worker for Interpol—was the worrisome bit. Of course, there was the added sting that by whisking away in the middle of the night, Emily had also successfully thwarted any chance Easter might have had for convincing her to stay put in London. That was a petty thing, he knew, but it didn't make it smart any less.

Emily wasn't a despot, he knew that—she'd never abuse her power or her position at Interpol. But he still had an obligation to look into the matter. Also, he was still feeling a bit cross and wanted someone to lash out at, and the current source of his irritation was an ocean away.

So he'd find the next best thing—the accomplice.

He made his way through the frosted glass doors of the accounting department, which housed the mission coordination unit as well—the place where expenses were balanced and all the logistical details of a mission or any other trip were handled, where everything from paying the light bill to making sure a diabetic agent had plenty of insulin in their emergency supply kit was sorted with technological ease.

"Hello, there," a woman with a dazzlingly wide smile and a set of eyes that spoke of instant mischief greeted him. She looked like the poster girl for business vogue, in a crème gauze blouse, a heather pencil skirt, and a pair of heels that were utterly impractical, unless she intended to use them as weapons of blunt trauma. Her hair was pulled into a tidy bun, though one couldn't call it sleek, due to the fact that her naturally curly hair created a halo of frizz around her head.

Clyde Easter briefly wondered why he hadn't visited this part of the building before.

"Yes, I'm looking for the department head."

"What is the nature of your visit?" Her smile faded and she became almost clinical.

"That would be between me and the department head."

"The department head whose name you obviously don't know," the woman glanced down at the file in her hands, as if perhaps it was more engrossing than her current conversation. Her green eyes darted across the page, double-checking the lines of numbers.

"You don't know that."

"Of course I do. If you'd known the person's name, you would have asked for that person specifically. One, it sounds more professional, and two, it implies a prior working relationship with said department head, making the staff more likely to be receptive to your request, as they will assume that you know that person and are an expected visitor." She scribbled something onto the bottom of the page—a signature, perhaps. She did it with a flair, as if emphasizing both her point and her certainty that he could offer no rebuttal.

"And how do you know that I'm not?" He couldn't argue with her logic, but he couldn't let her win so easily, either.

"Because I am the department head," she looked up at him again, her green eyes wide with nonchalant sincerity.

"Oh."

"Yes. _Oh_." With the same curt efficiency, she offered her hand. "Brighid Adair. How can I help you? I'm assuming you have some kind of clearance, or else you couldn't have made it this far into the building."

"Clyde Easter."

Now it was her turn to simply stop and say, "Oh."

"Yes. _Oh_." Clyde would be lying if he said he didn't feel a small measure of smug satisfaction at being able to reverse the situation.

"Then I guess you actually are an expected visitor," she admitted, turning pertly on her heel and waving for him to follow. They wove a trail through a maze of desks—at one point, she dropped off the folder in her hand at one of those desks, without so much as a hitch in pace. He had to admit, he was slightly impressed at how well she navigated in her impossible heels—keeping up with her wasn't a challenge, but it wasn't a stroll in the park, either.

"Welcome to the fishbowl," she motioned to an office that was three walls of glass and a fourth wall of windows looking out into the city, waiting for him to enter first. She gently closed the glass door behind them, nodding towards the only empty seat besides the one behind her desk—every other scrap of furniture was laden with files and books. She headed over to a credenza, where a tea service waited. She began making a cup of tea, although she didn't offer him one. "Now, I could play up the dumb blonde card—heavens knows, I've got the right set of hips for such a role—and pretend as if I'm totally shocked at your arrival, but I, for one, have better things to do with my time."

He had to admit, her comment about her hips wasn't untrue—she had a very nice figure, and yes, he could even see her playing the airheaded sexpot when it suited her. She seemed to have that kind of personality—the type that enjoyed fucking with people's heads simply because she could. _Antagonistic_ , that was the word. If he wanted a fight, he'd definitely come to the right place.

"So," she turned around again, forcing a smile that didn't even try to hide the fact that she wasn't thrilled at his presence. "Let's cut to it, shall we? Emily Prentiss is gone."

"And you helped her go."

"Yes, but she's coming back," Ms. Adair assured him with a patronizing air, taking a seat behind her desk as she gingerly set a modernist monstrosity parading as a teacup on its dark walnut surface. She didn't ask him how he knew that she was involved, and he didn't explain—because she already knew. She'd used her own access ID to enter and approve Emily's request for time-off. Of course, the ID had simply listed her as the administrator, which had been why Clyde had asked for the department head, but it was still a pretty clear-cut path straight to her door. She hadn't tried to hide her actions, or deny them. It was refreshing, actually.

"You didn't offer me any," he motioned to the tea, more out of a desire to see her reaction than actual feelings of insult or cravings for caffeine.

"Well spotted." Her eyes widened with feigned delight, as if he were her pet dog who'd just learned a new trick. "That's because I don't expect you to stay long enough to properly enjoy it—and I assure you, this brew is meant to be enjoyed. It's a waste otherwise."

She offered another facetiously winning smile, as if she were a traveling salesman hawking her own tea. It was so over-the-top and blatantly contentious that he couldn't help but admire her cheek—by now, she knew that she was talking to the man who oversaw every single Interpol branch in the United Kingdom, and yet she still treated him as if he were simply some drunk frat boy annoying her at the bar.

All in all, he found her absolutely amusing. Irritating, but amusing.

"I think what you mean is that you don't _want_ me to stay long enough to properly enjoy it," he corrected with a smile.

She gave a slight wave of her hand, "Semantics. And distractions—you haven't told me why Emily taking some much-needed time off has anything to do with me."

"Because I did some digging. And Emily left using an Interpol pilot—"

"A _contract_ pilot," she held up her finger to interrupt. Now she was smiling at him ( _nice try, Mr. Easter_ ). "A contract pilot who takes jobs outside of Interpol all the time—usually at least once a week."

She gestured towards him, almost dismissively ( _next point_ ). She took a sip of her tea, leaving a mauve arc around the rim of the cup.

He gave slight sigh. It was going to be hard to build up to a proper row if she kept interrupting him and shutting down his arguments before he even finished making them. "Fine, a contract pilot—whose information she never would have gotten if you hadn't come back into the office last night to make the arrangements—"

"First, _never_ is a very big word to throw around," she leaned forward, setting her hands on the edge of her desk. Clyde noticed that she didn't wear a wedding ring. "You can't honestly prove that Emily wouldn't have stumbled across this man any other way. I mean, Dav Bosko isn't some oracle Buddhist monk living in a cave atop a distant lonely mountain—he's in the phonebook, for Christ's sake. Second, yes, I did come back here to look up his information, and yes, I did use an Interpol landline to make the calls—which I'm assuming is why you knew about it at all, you clever little sleuth. But what does that matter? I also used that same phone to order Chinese takeout two nights ago, which was entirely for my own personal consumption. Tell me, are you going to have an issue with that as well, Mr. Easter?"

He sat back slightly, taking a full beat to study the woman on the other side of the desk. She returned his gaze with an easy nonchalance, sipping her tea without ever breaking eye contact.

Finally, she set the cup back down with slightly more force than necessary, as if to punctuate her next point, "Emily Prentiss did not use Interpol funds for her trip—she's paying Mr. Bosko out of her own pocket. She technically didn't even use Interpol resources—I did, if you're looking for someone to nail to the wall, although you have to admit, it's a shaky case at best and a complete waste of both our times at worst. But she's not actually depriving us of any resources. We have a dozen other contract pilots, ready to go at a moment's notice. So unless you suddenly decide to decree a mass exodus _par avion_ , we'll be just fine."

Again, the dismissiveness in her tone was acute. He was obviously wasting her time and she had no qualms about showing her displeasure with the matter. He actually wanted to take her to a pub, just to sit in the corner and watch her mow down any man foolish enough to try making a pass. It'd be a sight to behold.

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" He asked, a smirk dancing at the edge of his lips. "Every base covered."

"Or perhaps I just really don't give a damn, Mr. Easter," she kept her words neutral, but he could tell that she was being honest. She gave a slight wave towards the world outside her office window. "You could fire me today and I'd be happily installed at another agency by tomorrow. Having that kind of certainty takes the fear and doubt out of things."

"A bit cocky, aren't we, Ms. Adair?"

"No," she took another small sip of tea. She hadn't been lying—the cup wasn't that big, and despite the number of times she'd taken a drink, it was still over half-full. She truly was savoring the cuppa. Something about the relaxed nature of her body language imbued every word with sincerity, "I'm just very good at what I do—and smart enough to make good connections wherever I go. I've been in this field for a very long time—and as I'm sure you are very well aware, if you're going to survive in this strange little world of ours, you must always have a contingency plan."

He liked her, Clyde decided. She was self-possessed and self-assured in a way that was aggravating, but she had the grit and the determination to back up her swagger. It was evident, even in the way she sipped her tea.

Now she was simply watching him, waiting for whatever came next. He'd satisfied his need to know that Emily hadn't done anything improper with her position or its connections, but he wasn't quite ready to leave this shiny new thing he'd found. In all honesty, he'd never intended to fire Ms. Adair, or even threaten her with such, but still he prodded, "And what agencies would be offering you a job, if you were dismissed from Interpol?"

A flicker of a smirk played across her green eyes, "Ah, Mr. Easter—you know better than that. Part of being good at what we do means being able to keep secrets."

He shared her grin. But his curiosity wasn't satisfied. "Suppose you got multiple offers—"

"I would," she gave a curt nod of certainty. "I would and I have—and I continue to get them, on a regular basis."

He understood the unspoken threat ( _I'm here because I want to be, and I can leave just as easily as I please_ ).

"Alright then—would you choose based on higher pay or more authority?"

"Usually those two traits are intertwined." As if emphasizing her point, she interlaced her own fingers, setting her hands in her lap. However, she humored him, taking a beat to consider the question. "Either way, that wouldn't be a deciding factor. It all depends on the work."

The antagonistic tone was gone. Somehow, they'd reached an unspoken truce, for the moment, as they moved from facts to hypotheticals. She wasn't being dismissive or aggressive, and he wasn't goading her.

"In what way?"

"It has to be something I believe in." Now she took a moment to look embarrassed, sheepishly glancing down at her hands. "I know, it sounds terribly naïve, but—it's true. I've done a lot of things, in a lot of agencies over the years. I've been the boots on the ground, the team leader back at the van, the eye in the sky back at mission control, all of the above—and now here I am, a glorified accountant. But it matters. Making sure the agents have what they need, making sure they know where they're going and that they get there on time and in one piece—it matters."

She looked back up at him, the fervent gleam in her green eyes clutching at his throat. They were creatures of the same creator, and in this moment, they recognized one another as such.

"I understand that," he admitted quietly.

"I thought you would," her tone was equally soft. There was great compliment in those words, he could feel it. However, she quickly fell back into her usual demeanor, rising to her feet, "And I think you understood this entire situation much more than you let on—whatever the reason for your fishing expedition, I hope you caught what you were looking for."

 _And a bit more, perhaps_ , he mentally supplied, but was wise enough to keep it to himself. He noticed that she hadn't asked why he was really here, or even expressed curiosity—either she already knew or she just didn't give a damn. Clyde Easter was certain that it was the former.

She was already at the door, holding it open for his with the same false smile that she probably spared for people whom she was mentally telling to fuck off.

"I think next time, I'd really like to try the tea," he admitted easily as he brushed past.

"Not a chance," she assured him.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Spencer. Spencer, wake up."

The voice had such a gentle lulling cadence—for a brief moment, Spencer Reid thought he was a kid again, being softly cajoled back into the waking world by his mother. However, his brain quickly reminded him of where he was and what was going on.

He opened his eyes to see Judith Eden hovering over him, hands on her knees as she leaned forward in slight concern. "I'm sorry to wake you. But time is of the essence right now."

He grimaced slightly as he sat up on the narrow cot that had been brought into the room for him. He'd been kept under watch all night, though Dawson had been kind enough to find an office that contained an ensuite bathroom and enough books to help Reid distract himself until he was so exhausted that he had no choice but to fall asleep. The phone and the computer had been removed—Spencer Reid wasn't allowed any contact with the outside world just yet.

"What's happening?" He blinked a few times, recalibrating his brain to deal with all the craziness that was sure to ensue.

"Nothing yet—the list of addresses in your handwriting was sent to an analyst this morning, and the evidence team has arrived at the lab to begin sorting through the items found in Fuller's home. I'm afraid you'll be waiting here for a bit longer—but I want to ask you some questions, and I want you to think very hard about them before you answer. It's crucial that you consider everything, no matter how unimportant it seems."

"I think at this point, nothing's unimportant," he pointed out.

Eden gave a slight smile of agreement before continuing. "Sura Roza is going to spend the morning looking into the email supposedly sent from your phone—the one to the reporter, about the bombing."

"Linnea Charles—she's Maeve's sister—"

"I know, I know. That's not the important part right now. We need to focus on how the email got to her in the first place."

Spencer was silent, watching and waiting.

"Right now, our first priority is finding your phone. You say that you lost it at some point during your rush to check on Agent Jareau. You noticed it was missing once you were in the ambulance, correct?"

He nodded, his expression furrowed in rapt attention.

"Now tell me what you can remember about the ambulance itself. The name, license number—anything to identify it."

Spencer wracked his brain. "I'm not sure…I wasn't really focused on anything but JJ—"

"Understandably so. Look, we're trying to see if we can locate it via GPS—so far, no luck, probably because the battery's dead. Agent Shostakovich is currently helping agents comb the area in front of the main building to see if we can find your phone there. If nothing comes up, he and I are heading over to the hospital to see if we can possibly find it on the ambulance—we know the it went to Fairfax Medical Center, since that's where Agent Jareau was sent. They're both long shots, I know, but sometimes you've got to try the improbable."

"I appreciate the effort," he assured her quietly. "Although I'm still not sure why you're telling me this."

"Because," she held her breath, as if weighing the consequences of her current actions. Then she shifted tack slightly, "I need you to trust me, Dr. Reid. Trust that I want you to be proven innocent, and that I want to find the real person responsible."

He had to admit, if this was simply a strategy by the Flying Js to establish some kind of rapport in an elaborate Good Cop/Bad Cop routine, then it was an impressively good one.

"No offense, Agent Eden, but I don't know you enough to trust you," Spencer kept his voice calm and quiet—he wasn't trying to be rude, merely factual, and she seemed to understand that. "But I suppose I don't have much choice at this point, do I?"

Eden smiled again, sadly and apologetically. Then she rose to her full height again. "Agent Keller will be your monitor for the day. She's right outside the door—when you're ready to eat, want to take a walk, whatever. If you do think of anything else—anything at all—don't hesitate to tell her, so that she can relay it back to us."

With that, Judith Eden left the room. He knew that she'd been there, just outside his door, through the very early hours of the morning. He'd heard her and Jonas talking quietly in the hallway, and that was when he'd realized that the Flying Js were personally guarding him. He'd tumbled back into exhausted and fitful sleep, wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Even now, he still wasn't sure of the answer.

Spencer laid back down, frowning to himself as he stared at the ceiling.

None of this made sense. But the amount of nonsensical things was so overwhelming that it was hard to decide where to even begin sorting it all out.

First thing he'd do, once he decided to leave this office-turned-holding-cell, would be to ask Keller when he could speak to his team. He may not trust Judith Eden fully, but the BAU had earned his trust a long time ago. If anyone could end this nightmare, it was his team.

* * *

"How is he?" Jessalyn's voice was low, laced with concerned compassion—though most of it was actually for her partner, instead of the man on the other side of the now-closed door. Jude had left her bed after only a few hours of sleep to come back down the Academy and relieve Jonas of guard duty, and the long hours showed in the dark circles under her eyes and the sallow tint of her skin.

Judith gave a heavy sigh, rubbing her forehead in a mixture of fatigue and frustration. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."

Jack had said those words, or something similar to them, the night before. She'd understood them then and she felt them now, deep in her tired bones.

"Hey," Jess reached out, her fingers gently encircling Jude's wrist, as if pulling her back into the present moment. "It's gonna be OK."

The older woman forced a smile, "Of course it is."

"Be careful today, OK?" Jess had already issued that edict earlier that morning, and Jude understood that her repetition only further proved just how frightened she was by the whole thing.

"I will," Jude didn't offer a witty retort—Jess' worried heart was too tender for anything other than absolute sincerity at the moment. "And you'd better do the same."

Now the blonde gave a soft smile of reassurance as she nodded. With one last smile, Jude turned and went back to the conference room, where O'Donnell, Cruz, Dawson, and Shostakovich were already mapping out a battle plan for the day.

"Find anything?" Jude's question was directed at Shostakovich, who apparently had just returned from searching around the main building for Spencer's phone.

He gave a dour shake of his head, obviously displeased with his own answer.

"What about you?" Dawson looked at her.

Now it was her turn to look unhappy. "Dr. Reid doesn't remember anything off the bat—he was too busy focusing on Agent Jareau."

"Understandable," Dawson gave a curt nod. Then he frowned. "Unfortunately for us, also unhelpful."

"He hasn't asked for a lawyer yet," O'Donnell pointed out from his seat at the end of the conference table, where he was distractedly stirring a cup of coffee. "That's gotta mean something, right?"

Shostakovich gave a slight shrug, "Either he's innocent, or he believes he can outsmart us—lawyering up now is practically a declaration of guilt. He could be just one very clever lad who also happens to possess a God complex, which the BAU predicted our UNSUB would have."

Scott O'Donnell made a face that implied both his agreement with the reasonableness of that statement and his disagreement with the idea that it could actually apply to Spencer Reid.

Mateo Cruz didn't say anything—which wasn't much change from how he'd been all morning. He looked like a man who'd been run through a blender on his way to work. Everyone had noticed, but they all had the good grace to refrain from pointing it out.

"C'mon, Vichie," Jude reached out to give Jonas a quick pat on the shoulder. "Let's go find us a cellphone."

"I still don't understand why the phone is such a big deal," O'Donnell held his hands up in confusion. And of course, he had a point—they had proof the email existed, and just a few minutes earlier, Sura Roza had informed them that the email had actually been sent from Spencer Reid's cellphone. It seemed pretty cut-and-dried to him.

Dawson hadn't told him about Sura's theory on the possibility of some kind of remote access program being installed. In fact, the only ones who knew about it where the Flying Js, and Dawson planned to keep it that way, for as long as possible.

"I mean, is there some way that physically having the phone can definitively prove something?" O'Donnell asked.

"Yes, perhaps," Dawson admitted. He knew O'Donnell would delve deeper, because the man wasn't an idiot and he could obviously sense that there was more to be said than what was actually being put on the table.

"Like what?"

"Who knows?" Jude saved the day with a smile. She cocked her head to one side and brightly chirped, "Let's find out, shall we?"

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

"It's a miracle! Oh, be still my beating heart, Emily Prentiss has returned!"

Emily could only squeal in delight at the dramatics of her always-bedazzled partner in crime, who was currently wearing her Team Penemily t-shirt.

"Look!" Emily shrugged out of her jacket and oversweater, joyously revealing her own matching tee (hers was black, while Garcia's was neon pink), which Penelope had made for her after the case in Nairobi two years ago—it had since become a prized possession.

Penelope cheered with delight, pulling her friend into a bone-crushing hug and forgetting all about her unstable ankle. They began to skitter off-balance, but Derek Morgan quickly caught them, taking the time to simply give Emily a warm embrace of his own.

"Now, when do _I_ get a shirt?" He demanded playfully. "I mean, you two wanna be a dynamic duo, I get that, but can't I at least have some kind of fan memorabilia? Or better yet, can I get you two lovely ladies sporting Team Morgan shirts, because _that_ —"

"Is never gonna happen, champ," Emily rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, giving him a playful shove. On the sidelines, Rossi and Hotch exchanged amused grins. It was like watching two siblings get back together for the holidays.

Morgan stepped back suddenly, pulling his cellphone out of his back pocket, "Wait, wait, we need a pic—to go with the one on the mantle."

Emily glanced over at the mantle in question, where she saw a framed photo of herself, wearing that same shirt, smiling and giving a big goofy thumbs-up—it had been a recreation of the photo Penelope had sent her, along with the shirt, making the same pose. She couldn't help but grin, because she had Penelope's photo framed and on display atop the entryway table in her own home. It was a silly thing, an odd thing, but it was the fabric that made up a family, wasn't it—strange inside jokes that became even stranger traditions, woven into the story of a shared life?

She and Penelope struck the standard pose from the two previous photos, and then took another with a slight more "gangsta" stance, per Morgan's direction.

Once the hugs were given and the delight expressed, they slipped back into their roles—everyone knew why they were here, and although they'd taken a moment of respite, it was time to return to the situation.

"So, what do we know?" Emily set her hands on her hips, looking around expectantly.

"Not a lot," Hotch admitted with a frown. "We still haven't been allowed to speak to Reid."

He glanced at his watch. Kate Callahan was on her way now—they were going to the briefing at Quantico, which was supposed to be in an hour. On the drive to the airport, Rossi and Hotch had discussed the best approach, and they'd agreed that having the entire BAU attend the briefing might look like a show of force, which wasn't the note they wanted to strike. When at Quantico, the team would appear to play by all the rules, as if what they were doing at Penelope's apartment wasn't even happening. So far, Callahan had proven the most effective at not only keeping a cool head, but also distilling any tensions or misunderstandings that arose, making her the best possible choice for backup.

Hotch found himself wishing that Emily could go instead—that for one brief moment, they could pretend to be back where they used to be, when he saw her face almost every day, when her laughter and her caustic cracks and her dry humor weren't such a rarity, when having her walk in-sync beside him was taken for granted, when using her as a sounding board for this theory or that event was a given part of his day. While he certainly didn't regret the physical turn their relationship had taken since the Nairobi case, he could still easily admit that wasn't the thing he missed the most—because he simply missed _her_ , _here_ , working and living and breathing and fighting beside him. Sex with Emily Prentiss was great. Life in general with Emily Prentiss was even better.

But would he trade this new facet of their relationship, just to regain the old one? He didn't think so. It wasn't even remotely a possibility, so he'd tried not to even consider the question. If Emily came back to the BAU tomorrow, would he be able to re-box all the feelings that had been unleashed and expressed since Nairobi? He knew he wouldn't want to, but it scared him to think that maybe he _couldn't_ , even if he tried.

 _Can't have your cake and eat it, too_. When Emily had been his agent, he'd carefully filed away any feelings he might have had that went beyond respect and admiration. When she'd finally been at his side, with no rules in the way or working roles in conflict, they'd crossed the line. A line that couldn't be crossed as often or as deeply as he'd have preferred, since there was an ocean and two very busy careers in the way. The _more_ he'd wanted had come with complications, and while he didn't regret it, there were times when he'd found himself ungratefully thinking that it still wasn't enough.

To have her here, truly here—here, in the field, and here, with him, in a much more profound way. That's all he wanted. Was it too much to ask?

Apparently so.

He only thought this way when she was nearby. That was a bit of a lie—he didn't think about it as much, nor feel it as intensely, whenever she was safely tucked away in London. When she wasn't physically present to remind him of all that he missed, all that he wanted to never miss again.

Her forehead had a few more fine lines across it. There were two silver strands at her temple that hadn't been there a year ago, when they'd last been in the same physical space. There was a new mark on her left wrist, like a burn from some kind of cooking accident. It looked a few weeks old, but it would probably leave a faint-yet-permanent scar, the kind you wouldn't notice unless you knew to look for it. He was missing pieces of Emily's life, every second of every day. He was missing her grow older, grow stronger, grow into an entirely different person that she was two years ago, five years ago, ten. He was missing all the things that could be taken for granted in any other relationship, with any other woman.

In every event, there was a witness. Someone, or perhaps something, saw it. More than anything, he wished he could be the one chosen to witness Emily Prentiss' life. To count the grey hairs and kiss away the new laugh lines and know the story behind the scar on her wrist. The not knowing, the not witnessing, was agony, the price paid for loving a woman like her.

She murdered him with all the things he didn't get to see, with all the stories those things implied, all those little ghosts of things not done and chances not taken, all those little regrets that didn't have a name because he didn't even fully know what he was missing, only that he _was_ missing it.

She turned away from Penelope for a moment to give him a smile. A smile with teeth that had dragged out his heart long ago, without ever even knowing they'd done it.

And he smiled back. Because this was a moment that he did see—he saw the look in her big brown eyes, and he knew he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

For now, that was enough. But only for now.

* * *

" _How can you stand here beside me and pretend not to remember? Not to know that my heart is breaking for you? That your face is the wonderful light burning in all this darkness?"_

 _~Emily Brontë._


	12. Accidental Confessionals

**Accidental Confessionals**

" _It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one."_ _  
_ _~George Washington_ _._

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

"Hotch is right—we don't have much," Penelope admitted, taking her seat in front of the at-home workstation in the corner of her living room. "But here's what we do have. We've got an email, sent from Reid's phone, to a reporter—"

"Who is also Maeve's sister," Emily gave a curt nod. Last night, Hotch had given her more details about the case as she was on her way over to Heathrow, but on the ride to Penelope's this morning, Rossi had refused to discuss the case, insisting that they all deserved a few more minutes of simply catching up on each other's lives. "So, where is a copy of this email?"

With an easy movement, Penelope pulled a printout from the corkboard positioned on the wall above her desk. Emily frowned slightly as she inspected it.

"And it's the real thing?"

"Unfortunately, my love, yes."

"What little bit I saw of Reid's interrogation, the investigative team hadn't proven the email's veracity yet," Hotch offered. "But it's safe to assume that they probably know as much as we do by now."

"And where is this reporter?" Emily looked back to Rossi, who was the most likely to know. She'd also been apprised of Jordan Strauss' involvement in the whole debacle, but she wasn't going to mention that aloud unless absolutely necessary. Rossi was most likely already mentally kicking himself over that particular development, there wasn't any need to rub salt in the wound, especially when it came to Dave.

He made a helpless gesture with his hands. "In the wind, apparently."

Hotch's cellphone interrupted the discussion. He frowned slightly at the caller ID before answering, "This is Agent Hotchner."

The room went silent, all eyes turned expectantly towards the BAU chief.

"Of course. And—I appreciate it, sir." He hung up. He looked as stoic as ever, but his words were tinged with surprise.

"Jack Dawson was calling to make sure I was attending the briefing," he announced.

"Well, you are," Morgan pointed out.

"But why call to make sure specifically?" Hotch asked quietly.

"To preserve an air of normalcy," Rossi guessed. "The press may be gone, but everyone at Quantico is still keeping tabs on who's where, doing what. It would be noticed if the BAU was suddenly uninvited to all the briefings."

"Easier to keep an eye on us, too," Morgan added. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

" _Enemies_ is a little…dramatic, don't we think?" Emily gave him a look of feigned concern.

"You know what I mean."

She merely grinned—she did know, she just wasn't missing a chance to goad her former partner. He grinned back ( _I'm on to you, lady_ ).

Hotch's phone buzzed again. This time it was Kate Callahan, calling to let him know that she was downstairs. He excused himself, promising to let them know as soon as he had any new information.

Once he was gone, Derek turned to Emily, "So, was Hotch happy to see you?"

"Bit hard to tell. He's Hotch, Man of One Facial Expression," Emily returned easily. It was a joke that she and Morgan used to make privately. Mount Hotchmore, face of stone.

"And were you happy to see him?" Her friend wasn't so easily deterred.

"Of course I was—I'm happy to see all of you," she rolled her eyes. Then she stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought, "Is this some kind of weird competition between you two? You wanna see which one I've missed more? Because I've gotta tell ya, you both lose miserably to my boo thang over here."

She was, of course, talking about Penelope Garcia, who merely nodded in agreement, "Mm-hmm. She loves me enough to put voodoo hexes on me. You can't compete with that, sugar pie."

"I have no idea what that even means," Derek admitted easily. He spared a look between the two smiling, strange women. "And knowing you two, I probably don't _need_ to know."

"Probably," Emily teased. "But you still _want_ to. You know you can't resist the temptation. It's who you are, Derek Morgan."

He waved away the taunt, turning his attention back to Penelope, who was busy organizing her desk for the long day ahead.

Emily glanced back over at David Rossi, who was still nonchalantly positioned across the room.

 _What the hell did you tell them?_ Her brows furrowed downward in angry accusation.

He held up his hands slightly, his own eyebrows lifting in surprise. _Nothing, gattina._

She spared him one last look, as if weighing his innocence and giving him a pass—for now.

In the black and blank surface of her currently-turned-off computer screen, Penelope Garcia saw Rossi's half of the exchange. And she wondered if the "little push" which she'd jokingly told Derek that Emily and Hotch needed had already been given—and if maybe, just maybe, it had been successful.

If so...oh, a miracle, indeed.

* * *

 _ **Sunny Side Up Café. Madison, Wisconsin.**_

"Alright, fess up."

Adelaide Macaraeg's eyes flew up from her breakfast plate to look up at Joan Macaraeg Beringer, her elder half-sister. They had different fathers, but they both took after their mother in looks—the same dark features, the same delicate wrists and high cheekbones and thin lips. Joan was a few inches taller, which made her look even leaner, and her deep chestnut hair was sliced into a chic bob that never seemed to have a hair out of place.

Currently those almost-identical features were watching Adelaide with searing scrutiny as she slowly sipped her coffee. As usual, Joan's fingernails were perfectly manicured and painted a blaring red-orange.

"Fess up to what?" Mac returned her attention to the table, skipping over her plate to swipe the celery from her Bloody Mary—she'd landed two hours ago, blew into her daughter's apartment to give her a bone-crushing hug and shower her with congratulations and adoration, after which Emma Macaraeg had to leave for the graduation pre-ceremony line-up. Mac and Joan had found a café down the street for some much-needed fortification for the hours ahead—alcohol for Mac, coffee for Joan.

"Ok, that innocent act might work on some, but I'm your sister, Addie." Joan settled back against her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. "Even as a kid, you could never keep a secret. Emma didn't notice, because she's got a lot going on today, but I can see it, written all over your face. You're _glowing_."

"Jesus, you make it sound like I'm pregnant," Mac deflected jokingly.

Joan gave a snort of wry amusement. "That ship has long sailed, for both of us. And you, my dear, are avoiding the question."

"Because I don't have an answer for you, Joanie. I can't control what you think you see."

"Oh, I don't _think_ I see anything. I _know_." Joan leaned forward again, "It's a boy, isn't it?"

"Oh good lord, Joan. You're sixty-three years old, stop talking like we're still teenagers." Mac rolled her eyes, ignoring the daggers her sister shot her way at the mention of her age.

"Fine, a _man_. Which by the way, you haven't denied. There _is_ a man involved, isn't there?"

"They make up 51% of the world population. There's generally one involved, somehow."

"That's as close to a confirmation as I'm going to get," Joan realized. She took another smug sip of her coffee. "And I'll take it."

With another roll of her eyes, Mac took a bite of her celery. Her elder sister studied her for a moment—growing up as half-sisters with a seven-year gap in their ages had meant not having much reason to compete with one another, and sibling rivalry had been nearly non-existent between them. Addie's father had adopted Joan and her younger brother as his own, and he'd never played favorites, even after his own child of flesh and blood was born. Addie had inherited a few things from him—his stubbornness, his sense of duty, and his rabbit teeth.

That had always amused Joan—her baby sister had bunny teeth and wolf eyes. A lupine lapin. There was something deeply poetic about it, when you considered it—having the eyes of a predator but the teeth of a prey. Some great metaphor could be constructed around her sister's choice of career, seeing as Addie had taught herself to see through the lens of some pretty sick tickets, but her own nature would never allow her to cross over into actually _doing_ those horrible things, even though she could understand the motivations behind them.

Joan decided she needed to write that down. She'd put it in her next book, perhaps.

"Stop staring at me like you think I'm gonna crack and confess everything," her younger sister commanded, tossing the rest of her celery back into the almost-empty glass.

"I just hope I'm right. You deserve some happiness in your life." Joan lost her teasing air. She personally had always been someone who needed other people around her, and she'd always found it hard to understand Addie's preference for solitude. Granted, the last two decades of her life, Addie had a pretty solid excuse to stay out of the dating world, citing that she wanted to focus on raising Emma. And Joan hadn't harassed her (too much) about that decision—after all, she knew that Mac had seen some horrible things in her line of work, things sometimes done to young kids by their mothers' boyfriends or new husbands. The fear was understandable, especially when you were given heartbreakingly-frequent examples of it.

"If this line of conversation is going to continue, then I deserve another drink," Mac intoned flatly, glancing around for the waiter.

Joan grinned, holding her hands up in surrender. "Fine, no more questions about your love life—if such a thing even does exist."

However, she became serious as she quietly added, "Please just tell me that it isn't someone from work."

Those wolf eyes flicked up to meet her own, but the expression was entirely rabbit—scared rabbit, caught in a snare of truth.

"Oh, god," Joan exhaled slowly, sinking back into her seat. "Addie, no—"

"It's not like last time—"

"I certainly hope not—because last time you ended up pregnant and alone and exiled to Albany—"

"I remember. I was there," Mac's voice cut like a knife, and her eyes were just as sharp, silencing any comments that her sister may have had left. "Remember? It was _my_ life that got up-ended in all that shit—and in case you've forgotten, it's _still_ my life."

"I'm sorry," Joan ducked her head slightly. She'd hit harder than she'd intended, striking a chord that she knew shouldn't have ever been struck. "I just worry—and no, I'm not saying that as an excuse for my words. Just..."

Her words trailed off, her hand floating in a gesture of general helplessness. Joanie was a wordsmith, an excellent communicator—she only lost her ability to string the proper syllables together when she was truly upset. She wasn't lazy, just lost.

"I know," Mac quietly forgave her. "I understand."

Joan simply nodded again, taking a sudden and particular interest in her coffee.

"And I wasn't exiled," her younger sister reminded her, after a beat. "I was the one who chose to transfer."

"Because you had no other choice," Joan returned gently.

"I had other choices. I chose to go to Albany." Adelaide shifted slightly, glancing around the café. With a light sigh, she admitted, "And for what it's worth, this guy isn't a guy from work—not technically. He's an agent, but he's not in the same office. And it's not serious. It's not anything at all."

"If it wasn't anything at all, we wouldn't be talking about it right now."

Mac's cellphone rang out, and she breathed a sigh of relief, murmuring a prayer of, "Please, dear God, let it be another national emergency."

Joan gave a snort of amusement at the orison—truly, that'd been the only thing that could save her from her elder sister's questions.

"SSA Macaraeg," she answered.

"Mac, it's Jeff. We've got something."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"So, what else have you got?"

SSA Jessalyn Keller looked up from her coffee, slightly surprised by Spencer Reid's sudden question. He'd been quiet all morning, though she could tell that his mind was still running a million miles a minute. He'd only made two requests all morning—first, that he be allowed to speak to his team and second, that he could have a good strong cup of coffee and maybe some breakfast. So she'd regretfully refused his first request and honored his second by escorting him down to the mess hall, which was still open to serve the agents who were on the case, since the Cadets had all been sent home temporarily.

"I'm sorry?"

Spencer shifted slightly, waving back towards the interrogation rooms. "Last night, Dawson showed me the email and the note, and told me about Fuller's journals. What other evidence do you have against me?"

He said it so nonchalantly. As if they were discussing the weather, instead of a compilation of things that could have him tried and found guilty of domestic terrorism. Keller had to give him some respect for that.

"I don't know," she answered too slowly, too guardedly—she was lying, and they both knew it. Not that he blamed her. He knew that she was still trying to read him, to measure him up.

"Is this even legal?" He was obviously referring to his detainment.

Jess offered a small smile, "I don't think there's really any rules for this kind of stuff. Terrorism's its own creature, you know."

He did. The general rules of arrest and imprisonment and questioning didn't apply to suspects of terrorism. In terms of regulation and legislation, the treatment of suspected terrorists was still the Wild West of the law enforcement world.

"Why are you guarding me personally?" Spencer switched gears, keeping his eyes focused on her.

"What do you mean?" Again, she was obviously lying. She was blonde, but she sucked at playing the dumb card.

"Last night, Agent Shostakovich was at my door. Then I heard him switch out with Agent Eden early in the morning. And then this morning, you're stationed outside. Why is it so important that one of the Flying Js keeps an eye on me?"

"Because," Jess hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. "Because we can't trust anyone else."

"What? You think I have another conspirator in the Bureau, just waiting to spring me out?" Spencer couldn't hide the incredulous snark from his tone.

She blinked, as if she couldn't understand how daft he was being. "Don't you get it? We're trying to _protect_ you, Dr. Reid."

"Protect me? What is that supposed to mean?" He leaned forward slightly, his face filled in a mixture of incredulity and confusion.

Jessalyn's grey-green eyes flicked away, to the side, for the briefest of flashes. She was avoiding him, avoiding the question. Inwardly, she was berating herself for such a stupid, juvie slip-up. She was tired, more so than she would've been if she'd been merely physically fatigued—her depression had begun to settle into her bones with a familiar and never-welcome certainty, she could almost _feel_ it, as if someone had placed sandbags all over her skin. She was getting slower and she was slipping up more easily, and no amount of self-anger could change it.

And nothing could change the fact that Spencer Reid was now aware of the true game afoot.

"Nothing, I just—" She paused, sucked air through her teeth in a gesture of frustration, then gave a small shake of her head. She looked down at her coffee, her voice low, clinical, and quick, "Dr. Reid, please understand that right now, there are aspects of this case that I cannot share with you. At least not yet. Just know that we are doing our best, and that hopefully very, very soon, we will be able to tell you everything. I know that's not much to go on, and I also realize that I'm asking a lot of you, by asking you to wait and to trust us. You have no reason to do either of those things, but I'm asking you, please do."

Now she looked up at him again, and he could see that Agent Keller was mentally straining against her own words, as if she really wanted nothing more than to tell him everything, to assure him that it was all going to be alright—and for some reason, that was comforting enough for him, in that moment.

She believed him. She knew he was innocent. He could feel it, could read it in her face and her tone and the set of her shoulders.

So now he returned the favor. He simply nodded, quietly intoning, "I believe you."

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"So, you have no clue which ambulance brought in Agent Jareau?" Eden clarified with a slight arch of her brow, hoping against all hope that she'd misunderstood.

However, the ER intake clerk's expression dashed what little hope might have remained, giving a slow shake of her head. "We had buses coming and going—trying to get the injured out as fast as possible and then shooting back to pick up more. And we had multiple ambulance services coming in to help deal with the overflow. It could've been any ambulance service in this city."

"Well, thank you for your time," Shostakovich stepped in with a slight smile, although it didn't reach his eyes. He hadn't expected much, but he still felt a wave of frustration at the outcome, even if he'd predicted it. Then he had an idea, "You wouldn't happen to have a lost and found, would you?"

The clerk nodded, directing them to the desk that housed the lost and found box for the emergency room.

There were two cellphones in the bin, but neither one matched the make and model of Spencer Reid's device—again, an outcome to be expected, but frustrating nonetheless.

"We're chasing zebras," Jude muttered, looking around in helpless exasperation.

"I agree. But unfortunately, we really, really need to find ourselves a zebra."

They both understood that finding the elusive cellphone was the only way of definitively proving whether or not it had been hacked by a remote access program, and yet the probability of finding it was extremely unlikely.

"What is it about this case?" Jude continued her venting, keeping her voice quiet so that no one else could overhear her dismay. "Every piece of evidence that we need—truly need—isn't there at all. Everything that is there is circumstantial at best, and counterfeit at worst."

With a sigh of agreement, Jonas Shostakovich turned to let his gaze sweep across the crowded waiting room—a long-ingrained habit of teaching himself not to miss something obvious.

Another ambulance was pulling away from the loading bay. The sun hit its chrome-plated runners, causing a brief flash of light that reflected off the glass doors and the huge rounded mirror at the corner of the portico, which allowed ambulance drivers to see traffic coming around the corner.

And that's when he saw it—the security camera, just above the mirror. He stepped closer to the entrance, turning to see a corresponding camera in the opposite corner—this one aimed directly at where the ambulance's back doors would be, when they opened to admit a new arrival.

"Jude," he looked back at her, feeling both a small frisson of hope and an immediate desire not to invest too much into it. "Let's go see if we can look at the footage from the security cameras. Maybe…maybe we can find something."

She gave a slight shrug of acquiescence. When on a wild goose chase, one might as well check every pond.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Adelaide Macaraeg should be here, doing the briefing, Scott O'Donnell thought. Not that SSA Lewis was doing a bad job—in fact, she was quite competent. However, it took a lot more willpower to concentrate on what she was actually saying.

Mainly because Rowena Lewis was a very entrancing woman. To sound like one of those old-time film directors, she had _it_. Whatever _it_ was, the dark haired woman definitely possessed it in spades. She had broad shoulders and voice lined with the lower-register gravitas that commanded _listen to me_ , and a set of hazel eyes that seemed to slice you open and steal your soul in a single glance. What man could be immune to such a combination of charms?

The answer certainly wasn't Scott O'Donnell.

However, he was still a professional, and he tried to remain as such. He furrowed his brows, nodding along as she continued her section of the briefing, trying not to get distracted by the feathery flitterings of her long, thin fingers or the wonderful juxtaposition that her eyes could be shy yet her smile teasing.

Luckily, what she had to say was just as interesting as how she said it—and perhaps a tad more crucial to the current case.

"We decided," she gave a slight nod to SSA Masterson, who'd joined her for the briefing as well, apparently only as moral support, because he had yet to say a word. "That the best course of action was to tackle the smaller tasks first, before diving headlong into the journals. That way we could get as much variation in evidence as possible, and perhaps gain a better, more rounded understanding of Mr. Fuller."

She didn't refer to him by his Bureau title, Kate Callahan noted. And the reasoning was understood—Benjamin Fuller might have been an agent at one point, but his final actions had denied him the right to be called that anymore. He wasn't one of them. He was exiled from the tribe, voted off the island.

"So we tackled the stack of newspapers first." Now Lewis glanced over at Jack Dawson—in some of her final instructions before leaving, Mac had mentioned that Agent Eden had been particularly keen on the newspapers. Agents Eden and Shostakovich were not present, since they were still in the field (though Dawson had been noticeably tight-lipped about why they were out and what they were doing). Roe had to admit, given all the hullaballoo over the BAU's obvious connections to the case, she was surprised to see Hotchner and Callahan in the room, though she took it as a good sign. For Reid's sake, she certainly hoped it was. She continued, "At first, it was hard to tell exactly what the focus of the collection was—the oldest was from September 12, 2001—the day after 9/11. And several subsequent papers were close behind that date. However, as we got further into the collection, we were able to distinguish a line of focus."

She took a beat to glance back to Jeff, as if making sure that she was still on the right path. As a rule, Rowena Lewis hated giving presentations. After a lifetime of being the girl who was always noticed for her looks, she actively avoided any situation that would put her in the spotlight. It had been one of the strongest reasons for going into evidence recovery—big, bulky jumpsuits to hide her figure, masks and hoods to obscure her features, entire days spent in the back of some forensics lab without seeing another single living soul. In truth, she loved her work, but she also understood that she'd landed here in a continuation of her step-father's legacy (hadn't he taught her that, all those years ago—taught her shame and hiding and avoidance, taught her that all the bad things heaped upon her head were due to her own nature, her own internal glitch?), and in some ways, she was letting the bastard win and control her life long after she'd finally escaped his physical clutches. The last time she'd seen the man was when she was eighteen years old. Three decades later, his mark on her life was still as deep and self-evident as it had always been. It wasn't fair. But then again, Rowena Lewis had learned a very, very long time ago not to expect fairness out of life.

Jeff Masterson gave a slight nod, so small that only she could see it, and she loved him for his subtlety. He was the one who should be doing the briefing, with his commanding air and clear headedness. But she'd made the discovery, and he'd told her that she deserved to be the one to share it. And here he was, supporting her without letting anyone else see just how much—because he never wanted to make her look weak or dependent.

She had to remind herself not to be in love with him.

"Apparently, in the wake of 9/11, Mr. Fuller's focus shifted slightly," she glanced around the room again, making sure that the others—Cruz, O'Donnell, Hotchner, Callahan, Dawson, and Keller—were still following. "It's safe to say that about seventy-five percent of those newspapers held articles specifically related to the Amerithrax case."

"You've gotta be kidding me," O'Donnell exhaled. For those not as familiar with the Replicator case, he clarified, "That's the case that John Curtis believed robbed him of his shining star status. The case that got Erin Strauss killed."

Kate Callahan watched the rest of the reactions around the room, her eyes wide as she tried to take in every detail, every expression all at once. She felt Hotch shift closer to her, and she looked up at her unit chief.

He leaned further in, keeping his voice low so that only she could hear. "We need to talk to Alex Blake."

* * *

 _ **November 2002. Fuller House. Southbridge, VA.**_

"After a thirteen-month long investigation, the FBI has released an official statement on the Amerithrax case. Lead investigators say—"

Eighteen-year-old Benjamin Fuller was glued to the television screen, his mind latching onto every word as his eyes took in the shots of the now-infamous anthrax-laced letters, interspersed with photos of the victims and the potential suspects. The anthrax attacks had happened so soon after 9/11, sending fresh waves of terror through a nation still in the grips of the previous assault. He'd followed the case closely, anxious to see it end with the bad guy behind bars for life, desperate to have some kind of closure in a world that seemed without it.

However, if the news reports were to be believed, it wasn't going to end the way he'd hoped.

The reporter droned on, "The team of FBI agents assigned to the case is being disassembled and returned to their previous posts—just last week, the case suffered yet another blow to credibility when their prime suspect was proven innocent, an action that now seems a recurring theme in a case filled with twists, turns, and dead-ends. A statement was issued…."

This wasn't the first time that the investigation had named a suspect, only to later find proof of that man's innocence. It was part of the process, Ben knew, but he also could see how embarrassing it was, to keep slipping up on national news. Still, was that really grounds for halting the entire investigation?

Now the screen was filled with footage of the FBI team, exiting the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building, home to the FBI field office in New York City. The metal on the doors flashed briefly in the sunlight as they opened and shut, producing a small stream of drained and dour-faced individuals. The dark glass behind them rippled like a lightning storm as dozens of cameras tried to capture the moment.

And that's when he saw her.

She was pretty enough, pretty in a way that was sharp and quiet, all at once. Like the others, she kept her head ducked downward, as if trying to avoid the bombardment of questions from the reporters. Something was shouted at her, obviously, something that took her off guard, snapped her out of her docile and defeated state. She looked up, almost directly at the news camera, the flash from another photographer searing her image, setting her eyes and hair aflame like a burning angel.

Benjamin Fuller lost his breath.

Her eyes. They were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He'd never forget those eyes, as long as he lived.

He'd never forget _her_ , as long as he lived.

* * *

" _Their eyes met. It had begun. They had begun."_ _  
_ _~Alexandra Potter._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: References to Rowena's backstory are covered more in-depth in Out of Africa (Ch 16, most notably).***_


	13. Here Comes the Cavalry

**Here Comes the Cavalry**

" _Our behavior is different….If a man gets lost in the mountains, hundreds will search and often two or three searchers are killed. But the next time somebody gets lost, just as many volunteers turn out._ _Poor arithmetic, but very human. It runs through all our folklore, all human religions, all our literature—a racial conviction that when one human needs rescue, others should not count the price."_ _  
_ _~Robert A. Heinlein._

* * *

 _ **February 2015. Harvard University. Cambridge, Massachusetts.**_

"Let me be clear on this—it's not the fact that you plagiarized. It's how _badly_ you executed the plagiarism," Alex Blake leaned forward, as if to emphasize how the snafu had physically affected her. She kept her gaze locked onto the student seated in her office, easily tossing the term paper back towards him. "It's one thing to rip off an entire article and hope the professor doesn't notice. It's another thing completely to rip off an entire article that the professor _wrote_ _herself_ and still expect her not to notice."

Now the student understood. He sat back, fully aware of just how stupid his mistake had been.

"Yeah," Alex nodded towards him. "Did you really think I wouldn't recognize my own work?"

He was smart enough not to respond.

She continued, sitting back in her chair and cocking her head to the side, "Also, the article I wrote was a review of the book on the concept, not a review of the technique itself. That's not the same thing. This whole paper is just one big hot mess."

He'd accepted defeat. He was staring at his paper with a lifeless expression.

"Look, I'm not going to report you to Academic Affairs," she informed him. He snapped out of his daze, the first glimmer of hope in his eyes. Really, he was a bright kid who'd made a stupid mistake—she was pretty sure that having him kicked out of school wasn't the best solution. "What I am going to do is give you back this paper and give you a twenty-four hour extension. Bring me back something that's actually your own work."

The alarm was evident on his face, and he broke his silence, "But….I can't write an entire paper in twenty-four hours—"

"In all fairness, you had an entire six weeks to write the paper, just like the rest of your classmates," she held open her hands. "And that's twenty-four hours more than I should have given you. So if I were you, I'd get to work. The clock starts now."

He hurriedly gathered his things, mumbling something that could be interpreted as both gratitude and irritation before exiting her office.

With a sigh, Alex Blake leaned back in her desk chair, looking up at the ceiling in mild despair.

She could hear snickering from across the hall.

"Shut up, Cheryl," she intoned flatly.

"I didn't say a word," Dr. Cheryl Black, professor of Folklore and Mythology, returned easily from her own office, whose door was a mere five feet from Alex's own. Office space was, as with most colleges, at a premium, and the alcove that Alex had landed in housed an eclectic collection of professors from various points on the arts and sciences scale. There were five offices, two on each side of the small hallway, with one at the end. The end office held a professor of Medieval Latin, the one adjacent to Alex's held a non-doctorate lecturer on Germanic languages and literatures, and the office opposite that one held an anthropologist. Needless to say, when the five of them were all present, some very interesting discussions could be had, usually tossed out into the hallway from their respective offices as they kept themselves busy answering emails or grading papers or planning lectures. It was detached, yet involved—an odd combination that Alex Blake found comforting. Not nearly as tight-knit as her former team at the BAU had been, but still filled with a quiet academic camaraderie that had always felt like home to her.

"You were nicer about it than I would have been," another voice chimed in. Wry and reedy and easily recognizable with its unique cadence, compliments of the Republic of Georgia. So Dr. Aleksidze was back in his office—the anthropologist must have slipped in while she was lecturing her wayward plagiarist. Otherwise, he would have popped his head into her doorway, sing-songing his greetings and perhaps bearing some of his wife's baked goods, if she were lucky.

As if reading her mind, Cheryl piped up again, "Yo, Leks, you need to tell that wife of yours to make some more Gozinaki for your coworkers, whom you adore."

"That's only for New Year's. You'll have to wait another ten months."

"Tell her that we foolish Americans don't understand the difference."

"It's merely walnuts in honey—you could easily make it yourself."

"Yeah, but it wouldn't be as good as the kind your wife makes."

"True," Aleksidze's tone implied that he didn't have much faith in Cheryl's cooking skills. Alex grinned to herself as she swiveled her chair back towards her desk, taking another term paper from the stack on her desk.

Her colleagues continued their back-and-forth, and she got lost in the process of reading her student's work. Her cellphone rang a few minutes later, and she answered it without looking.

"Dr. Blake speaking."

"Alex, it's Aaron Hotchner."

"Hotch," she stopped what she was doing, sitting up straighter. Her brows quirked downward in concern. "Is everyone alright?"

She was asking because she'd seen the news reports, of course. However, Hotch couldn't help but wonder if she had a premonition about the call.

He quickly informed her of the injuries sustained by Garcia and JJ, not surprised by her immediate reactions of concern and empathy. By the time he got to Reid, she was on the verge of panic.

"Hotch, how could they even think that?" She got up and quickly went to close her office door. Whatever happened next, it didn't need to be observed or overheard by her colleagues.

"It's…complicated. And convoluted." Hotch answered hesitantly. She knew that he wasn't trying to be secretive, but was merely too tired to relay the entire story to her—and she silently wondered who else he'd told this to, how many times he'd given this information. She knew that she'd been given a simplified version of events, and the thought of all that she didn't know made for an unpleasant churning in her stomach. "But that's not why I'm calling, technically."

"What is it?" She felt a prickle of apprehension.

"The man who framed Reid—at least the one who was killed—seems to have had an obsession with the Amerithrax case."

"Oh, god," she sank back into her chair. "You don't think…"

"He was young when the case happened—still a teen. He wasn't an agent at the time, obviously."

"So, no Curtis-copycat coming back for revenge," she surmised.

"At least not for that," he corrected, and she understood that there must be some part of the profile that did point towards a man seeing retribution for some slight. "But the case has some eerie similarities to the Replicator case."

"What do you need me to do, Hotch? How can I help?"

"We need to figure out how this guy connects to the Amerithrax case, and how they both connect back to this current one. And how Spencer Reid could possibly get sucked into the mix. You're a profiler, as well as a firsthand witness to the Amerithrax case who also personally knows Spencer Reid—and most importantly, you're someone I can trust."

That was a compliment of the highest regard, coming from Aaron Hotchner. She ducked her head slightly, as if made shy by the honor. However, she quickly refocused on the more important detail, "There's something you're not telling me, Hotch."

"You're also outside the Bureau now. And that's a very important element."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. "Hotch…you're not…this particular vein of investigation—it's not on the books, is it?"

She knew the answer, even as she asked the question, and they both knew it. However, Hotch gave her the courtesy of answering, "No. As far as the Bureau is concerned, we're called off the case."

"I see." She glanced at her watch. Then she swiveled her chair towards her computer, pulling up a list of flights from Boston to D.C. "There's a flight leaving for D.C. in two hours. I'll be on it."

"You don't have to come down here." As with Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner got the distinct feeling that he was fighting a losing battle.

"Hotch, I think we both know that I do. I'll see you soon."

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"What time did you say this agent was admitted?" The security guard directed the question at Jonas Shostakovich, but his eyes remained on the computer in front of him, which was currently fast-forwarding through video footage from two days prior.

"Um…sometime around ten, ten-thirty," Jude answered, biting her bottom lip in apprehension.

"Look for when the steady stream of ambulances clears up a bit," Jonas instructed. "Agent Jareau had to be rescued from an elevator shaft—she was one of the last agents to be rescued, and would have been one of the last ones to arrive."

The security guard made a small noise of understanding. Then, he stopped fast-forwarding to let the footage play at a regular pace. It took a while, but eventually, a bus pulled up and a blonde woman on a stretcher was taken out of the back—followed by a long, lanky man.

"That's him," Jude nudged Jonas, who had already recognized Dr. Reid.

The doctors who'd been waiting for Agent Jareau whisked her away, and Reid followed close behind.

A paramedic stayed, cleaning out the back of the bus. Then he crouched down, scooping something from underneath one of the benches installed along the side of the wall.

"Pause it." Jonas commanded, and the security guard obliged. Then he directed his next question to Jude, "What's that look like to you?"

"I'd say it was a phone, if I had to guess," she answered, her voice lined with a sense of knowing. She looked over at her partner. "It's not really going to be that easy, is it?"

"Only one way to find out. Let's see what happens next," Jonas nodded towards the guard again, who pressed play.

The paramedic hurried into the building as well.

"He's probably returning the phone," the guard supplied. "Anything found in the bus that doesn't belong is assumed to be the patient's—it's usually added to the rest of their effects."

Now Jonas and Jude exchanged glances again.

"Well," Jude gave a slight sigh. "I think it's time to visit Agent Jareau again."

* * *

"Oh, absolutely not." Candace Mellinger gave one small, definitive shake of her head, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared down the two agents standing before her.

Agent Shostakovich tried to reason with her, "Dr. Mellinger, please let us explain—"

"And please let me be very clear—no way in hell are you going anywhere near my patient." Her face was a stern as her tone, and they understood that there'd be no bargaining with her on this point. "The last time y'all showed up, she ended up in surgery— _again_. Granted, that wasn't entirely your fault, but I doubt that will make you welcome visitors in her book, and right now, my job is to keep Jennifer Jareau as calm and peaceful as possible."

"And our job is to find the monster responsible for putting Jennifer Jareau in that hospital bed in the first place," Judith Eden shot back. Her words hit their mark, because Dr. Mellinger hesitated, for just a second.

"I'm sorry, I can't," she shook her head again. "Number one, I can't let you speak to her, and number two, I can't just hand over her personal property without her consent—so either wait until she's recovered enough to have visitors, or come back with a warrant."

"Something the matter, Doc?" William LaMontagne appeared, his face etched with concern. Candy didn't have to glance at her watch to know it must be the next round of visiting hours for ICU—the man was a punctual as the clock itself, ready to hold his wife's hand for the next hour, regardless of whether she was awake or asleep or in some drugged state in-between. It was touching, actually, the kind of thing that made Candy think that maybe all those old fairy tales about true love weren't really so far-fetched after all.

Like any good cop, he'd marked the two FBI agents from the moment he'd rounded the corner of the hallway—and given Dr. Mellinger's aggressive stance and particularly unhappy facial expression, he'd gotten the feeling that whatever was happening, it wasn't a pleasant situation.

"These two want to look through Jennifer's things." She gave a curt nod back towards Jonas and Jude.

"Technically, we just want to know if there was an extra cellphone found in her effects," Judith Eden kept her voice gentle, non-combative. Whoever this man was, he had a personal connection to Agent Jareau, she could tell by the way Dr. Mellinger confided in him. "It's crucial to the investigation."

"And I've been trying to tell them that they can't talk to Jennifer about it—nor can I just give them her things," Candy added.

"Well, I'm her husband," Will held out his hands, as if settling the matter. "I can go through her effects and see if the extra cellphone in question is actually there. And if it is, then I will ask JJ what she wants to do about it."

It was as good as they were gonna get, Jonas realized. So he merely nodded in agreement. "Thank you, Mr. Jareau."

"It's LaMontagne," Will corrected easily. "And don't thank me yet. I don't see why she would have somebody else's phone with her, and even if she did, my wife isn't always the most accommodating to people who threaten the ones she loves."

By now, he'd figured out who they were, and how they were connected to the case against Reid—he saw no reason to pretend otherwise. _Shoot straight_ , his father had always said. _Say what you mean and mean what you say._

He didn't wait for a response. He merely moved forward, holding the door to the ICU open for Dr. Mellinger.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't want them upsetting Jennifer," Candy waited until the door was fully closed behind them before she spoke.

"I understand completely, Doc. And I appreciate it. I think we can both agree that she's had enough stress to last ten lifetimes."

The doctor hummed in agreement.

JJ was awake this time. She smiled slightly at the sight of her husband. "What, no Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle balloons for me today?"

He grinned at the reference, pulling a folded up piece of paper out of his pocket. "Got something even better than that. A one-of-a-kind Henry LaMontagne original."

He unfolded the paper for her, holding it up so that she didn't have to move her head to see it.

"Aw," she gave a slight laugh. Stick figures paraded across the page, decked out in what appeared to be Halloween costumes.

"It's us three, plus Uncle Spence," Will explained. "Trick-or-treating—as the turtles, of course."

"Of course," she repeated warmly, still amused that her son was planning his Halloween outing eight months in advance. Always the planner, that boy.

"Where d'ya want me to put it?" Will looked around, to the flowers and balloons and cards that he and Henry had brought on previous visits.

"There, front and center," she pointed to a place on the countertop, and he obliged.

Then he quietly went over to the chair in the corner of the room, where JJ's shoes and clothes had been tucked into a plastic bag.

"What're you doing?" she asked, her mouth turning downward in confusion as she watched her husband rummage through the bag.

"Well I'll be damned." He pulled his hand out of the bag, holding up two cellphones. "This one's yours…but whose is the other one?"

"I…don't know." Her voice was filled with confusion. "Maybe the paramedics accidentally put one of the other survivor's phone with me, thinking it was mine? We all got pretty thrown around in the crash."

He didn't tell her that two agents were outside, looking for this phone in particular. Instead, he simply asked, "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Turn it on."

He tried. "Can't. Battery's dead."

"Did you have a charger in your car?"

"I do, but it won't fit this type of phone." Hazarding his next question, he asked, "Should I turn it over to the authorities?"

God help him, his wife was too smart sometimes. He saw the moment she clicked the puzzle pieces together.

"How'd you know to look for it, Will?"

"I didn't. I was just looking."

"But why? Why were you suddenly concerned with what was in my personal effects?"

The jig, as they say, was up. Denial would only further upset his wife, and the whole purpose of him finding the phone instead of having the agents come in with a warrant was to prevent upsetting JJ.

"Look," he gave a heavy sigh. "There are some agents out there who somehow knew that you had someone else's phone with you. It's pretty obvious that they somehow think it's connected to the case—"

"Let me see it," she held out her right hand, since her left was still bandaged. He gave her the phone, watching as she silently inspected it.

"This is Spence's phone," she pronounced.

"How do you know?"

"See here? That crack on the side? He dropped it down a flight of stairs last week. I remember teasing him about needing a new phone, and he was complaining that he'd just gotten this one figured out, so he didn't want a new one." Now she turned her scrutiny back to her husband. "Why do they want Spence's phone?"

"I don't know, JJ." A lie, pure and simple. Well, he didn't know for certain, but he could hazard a guess, seeing as Reid was currently being held as a suspect.

"Spence obviously doesn't know I have it—he would have asked for it yesterday," JJ pointed out. After a slight pause, she asked, "Did he mention anything about it this morning, when he stopped by?"

Ah, yes, another lie that Will had told—earlier, when he'd visited her, he'd told his wife that the entire team had been at the hospital, checking in on her progress and wishing her well.

"If he did, I missed it," Will rubbed the back of his neck. "Lack of sleep makes me less than sharp, ya know."

Her expression softened at the admission. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Lord knows, you aren't here because you want to be."

She grinned again at that statement—they both knew that much was true.

"Still," she set the phone in her lap, reaching for him again. He came to her side, easily slipping his hand into hers. "I know this hasn't been easy for you, and I'm sorry. Henry, my mom, all the other fallout from this case—you've got so much to handle, and I'm sorry that I can't help you more."

"Rest and recuperate—nothing in this world could help me more than having you back," he assured her, leaning forward to give her a light kiss.

"You're just saying that because you want my mom to hurry up and leave," she informed him drolly. He laughed in response.

"Sandy's an absolute angel."

"We are still taking about Sandy Jareau, right? _My_ mother?"

"Hey, she raised a helluva woman, whom I happen to love like crazy. For that, I'll always be grateful."

"Laying it on a bit thick there, Mr. LaMontagne."

"You know me, babe—all or nothing."

She was shining now, her face filled with a smile and her eyes dancing—even bruised and bandaged, she was beautiful.

"Now," he scooped the phone out of her lap, holding it up for inspection. "Can I turn this over to the investigators?"

"I guess. But I want to make sure that Hotch knows what's going on. And Spence needs to know we found his phone."

It took everything Will had to keep his voice calm and nonchalant. "Oh, I'm pretty sure the other agents will let 'em know."

* * *

 _ **The Washington Daily Editorial Offices. Washington, D.C.**_

Karl Miramontz frowned as he glanced up at the clock on the wall for what had to be the twentieth time that morning—he didn't exactly keep a running mental tab on his coworkers, but he knew that this was late, for Linnea.

She still hadn't arrived. And he hadn't heard from her since yesterday afternoon, when she'd slipped out of the building to avoid the FBI agents and to meet with John Adams.

This didn't feel right. He called her cellphone, but there was no answer. He sent a text, then busied himself by knocking out a few fact-check requests that some of the other journalists had given him. After another half-hour had passed, he couldn't ignore the bad feeling growing in his veins.

He found Linnea Charles' home phone number in the personnel files, and gave it a call.

A man answered, "Hello?"

"Hello, this is Karl Miramontz, from _The Daily_. May I speak to Linnea?"

"She's not in right now."

"Any idea where she might be?"

"Didn't she tell you guys?"

 _You guys_ obviously meant the entire office.

"Well, she didn't tell me—I'm just the paper's researcher. I just had some facts and figures that she'd requested for her latest article." It was a lie, but Karl had no qualms about telling it. "She told me to call her as soon as I got them, but she's not answering her cell."

The man on the other end hesitated, then finally answered, "She's up at her grandmother's old house, outside the city. She does that, when she's writing a big piece on a deadline—holes up, cuts off contact."

"Cuts off contact? When was the last time you spoke to her?"

" _Spoke_ , as in physically exchanged words? Yesterday afternoon. She called me to say that was her plan, but she had a few errands to run first. But we've been texting most of the morning. Perhaps you should just try that—whenever she gets into her writing space, she really doesn't take phone calls at all. Not even from me, and I'm her husband."

"Will do, sir. Thanks for your help." Karl didn't mention that he'd already tried texting Linnea. He also didn't mention that none of this felt right.

He tried one more text, and waited. Almost an hour passed with no response. He checked with their editor, who hadn't been aware of any plan of Linnea's to hole up on a writing spree (something he would have known, if it had been true—Linnea Donovan Charles often did disappear to knock out an article in solitude, but she was always very good about making sure everyone knew where she was). He went back to her desk in the bullpen, still in the same state of disarray as it had been when she'd left the previous afternoon. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was really paying attention to him, Karl began sifting through her desk, not looking for anything in particular, but regarding each item as a potential clue.

Her laptop stared back at him from the bottom drawer.

How was she holed up writing an article without her laptop?

He quickly logged into her computer (he shouldn't, but he'd memorized every person's login information—some hacker habits never truly die), and found her cloud drive. It was the paper's policy for journalists to back up their work to their own personal cloud, allowing them to access and continue their work from anywhere in the world.

Linnea hadn't edited any of the items in her cloud in over twenty-four hours.

Wherever she was, and whatever she was doing, Karl Miramontz was certain that she wasn't at her grandmother's house writing. Yesterday, she'd been dodging Federal Agents and today she'd gone MIA. That was never a good combination.

Time to call John Adams—the last person Linnea was supposed to have had contact with.

Adams was quick to help. "She told me that someone might call—I'm assuming she meant you."

"Perhaps. Did she say why she thought I would call?"

"I think you know why," Adams returned, not unkindly. "This is a dangerous business she's found herself in, and it never hurts to be overly cautious. Are you saying that she's missing?"

"No, not at all," Karl lied, again as quickly and easily as breathing. "She's just holed up on a writing spree, and annoying the life out of me by not responding. I've got a few questions to ask her, in order to clarify a source she's quoting in her article—and she can't finish writing her article until I fully vet the source, so looks like we're in a catch-22 until she deigns to return my call."

Adams gave a hum of understanding. Karl continued, "She didn't…leave any contact information with you, did she?"

John Adams wasn't a dull man. And he didn't pretend to be, either. "I get the feeling that there's more to this than you're telling me, Mr. Miramontz. But I know Linny isn't a fool, and if she's trusted you with this information, it means she thinks you are an honorable human being."

The implication wasn't lost on Karl— _don't disappoint me by proving otherwise, son_.

"She simply gave me a name and a number. She said if anything happened, this was the person to contact." There was a light sigh on the other end of the line, as if Mr. Adams still wasn't entirely convinced he should give out this information, but felt as if he had no choice.

Karl jotted down the name and number—it was a D.C. area code, which meant its owner had to be local. After thanking John Adams again and hanging up, Karl quickly looked into the contact—one Jordan Strauss, living in Vienna, Virginia. A young woman, attractive, apparently very active in the historical community, currently employed at the Women's History Museum in D.C.

What kind of connection could she possibly have to a bombing at the FBI?

Karl decided it was time to find out.

* * *

" _If you see someone in trouble, you should help them."_ _  
_ _~Veronica Roth_ _._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: Fun fact—the incident between Alex Blake and her plagiarizing student is based on a true story. I have a friend who is a history professor. She once had her class write a short essay on "The King's Great Matter" (basically Henry VIII's inability to produce a legitimate male heir and his desire to divorce Catherine of Aragon to marry Anne Boleyn, for those who aren't familiar with that section of Western Civ). One student simply copied and pasted…a review that my friend had written of the book "The Other Boleyn Girl". Her biggest complaint was that the student obviously hadn't checked the byline of the review to realize its author.***_


	14. The Cheshire Cat Was Right

**The Cheshire Cat Was Right**

" _Don't be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen."_ _  
_ _~George Saunders._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: First, I know, it's been a hot minute. This time of year always gets a little crazy for me. Apologies for taking so long with the update. Aside from general business, there are a few storylines that got a little tangled and I had to take them apart and reconstruct them, multiple times.**_

 _ **The second section of this chapter makes references to international terrorist Mariatu Wasaki and certain elements of the case in Nairobi—all covered in Out of Africa.**_

 _ **There is also a reference to Constantine the cat, who first appeared in Pay the Piper. Not that his character arc is particularly moving or important, but still.***_

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Agent Dawson."

With one last breath to steel himself, Jack Dawson turned back to the source of the voice calling his name. The briefing had concluded and Agent Hotchner had slipped away (as if Dawson didn't know exactly what was going on), but Dawson had known the BAU chief would find him again. Not that he blamed him.

"I'd like to see Dr. Reid today." Hotchner was moving down the hall, closing the gap between them. He was still confident and assured, but his aggressive undertone from the night before was gone. Right now, he had the air of a choirboy.

Except he wasn't a choirboy, not by half. And they both knew it.

"I'll see what I can do," Dawson tried to sound both empathetic and firm. "Right now, we're a little busy—"

"Given the circumstances, I hope you're _very_ busy—finding out who framed Dr. Reid."

"We know how to do our jobs, Agent Hotchner." The empathy left his tone, but the firmness was certainly still there. "And rest assured, we will explore every possible lead. You cannot speak to Dr. Reid at this time, but perhaps after the briefing this afternoon—"

"You've taken us off this case in everything but name, you've made it very clear that you think we're all somehow involved or at least extremely compromised, and yet you're letting us come to the briefings." Hotchner's face remained as impassive as ever, but one brow raised in slight questioning. "Doesn't make much sense."

Now Dawson smiled. "Maybe it does. Or maybe I'm just mad."

He started down the hallway again, turning back around to backpedal as he held out his arms in an encompassing gesture, "Maybe we're all mad here."

* * *

Kate Callahan had been waiting patiently by the front entrance to the Academy when Hotch reappeared.

"So, what'd he say?" She was on-alert now, hoping against hope for a positive outcome.

"I'm not sure," her unit chief admitted. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he's lost it."

"But you _do_ know better, right?" Her words were lined with uncertainty. It'd be easy, to simply say the lead investigator was going crazy, but it wasn't very likely and it certainly wouldn't help their cause.

"There's something going on that he's not telling us about," Hotch informed her.

"Oh, I think there's a _lot_ of somethings going on that they're not telling us about," she agreed. He gave a brief flicker of a smile at her response, and in her book, that was as good as a standing ovation, when it came to Aaron Hotchner and his stone-faced humor.

"So, we're not going to see Reid?" She guessed.

"Not yet," his face returned to an expression of displeasure.

"Jeez Louise, they're keeping him under a tight lock and key—have they let him talk to a lawyer yet?"

"They don't have to, unless he asks for it—and he won't. He's innocent, he won't think he needs one." Hotch's frown deepened. He glanced at his watch. "The next briefing won't be for a few hours. We should get back to Penelope's and see what we can do there."

She nodded in agreement as they headed for the door.

Several yards ahead of them, Lewis and Masterson were making their way across the maze of lawns and sidewalks and small outbuildings, back towards the main building. Hotch fought the urge to run after them, to beg them to let him look at the evidence himself—mainly because he knew that if he asked, they'd probably agree to help. Emily had told him about how those two had helped her cover up the truth about Mariatu Wasaki's death in the Nairobi case—they'd put their careers on the line for a woman they'd barely known, though by that point, Emily and Rowena had already shown a deep and fast friendship. Hotch couldn't ask them to do it again.

Still, that didn't stop him from _wanting_ to.

Callahan noticed her boss' distracted air, so she quietly asked, "Watcha thinking?"

His mouth pressed into a hard line. "I'm thinking it's much harder to play outside the lines than I'd hoped."

* * *

 _ **Strauss House. Vienna, Virginia.**_

Like all cats, Constantine had an innate knack for knowing exactly when he shouldn't be in the way, and for finding exactly how best and most obtrusively to be in the way at that precise moment.

Jordan's cellphone began ringing and buzzing, the force of its vibration sending it dancing along the polished wood dining table, and she hurried from her post at the coffee pot in the kitchen to answer it—however, Constantine chose that moment to perform a daring feat of dexterity by weaving his way through her legs while she was in mid-stride, causing her to tumble over the cat, who also had the gall to bite her ankle, as if _she_ were responsible for the whole thing.

"Jesus, you psychotic little bastard," she barely caught herself on the edge of a dining chair, one ankle already throbbing from the cat's teeth and the other promising to swell up with a sprain in a matter of minutes, thanks to that little dance of death.

Needless to say, she was a bit distracted by the time she answered the phone.

"May I speak to Jordan Strauss?"

"May I ask who's calling, please?" She hadn't recognized the number, and the guy kind of sounded like a telemarketer.

"Karl Miramontz, from _The Washington Daily_."

"Oh. How can I help you?"

"First, you can tell me if you are Jordan Strauss or not."

"Oh, yes. Yes I am," she reached down to lift up the hem of her jeans and inspect the red welt on her ankle. She shot a dirty look at Constantine, who was seated in the doorway of her mother's study, looking as innocent as a saint.

She'd learned not to expect anything less from the cat who'd primarily been her brother's creature, ever since her mother had found it as an abandoned kitten in the supermarket parking lot and brought it home, almost a decade ago. Jordan had chosen the name Constantine, after the Roman emperor—Christopher, her brother, had agreed to the name because it was the same as the demon-hunting comic book anti-hero. Truth be told, he was more like the exorcist than the emperor.

She'd inherited the cat, along with the house, when her mother had died. Constantine still slept on Erin's bed, at the foot, as he'd done for almost as long as he'd been part of this family. Jordan still slept in her old room upstairs. She couldn't bring herself to demolish her mother's sanctuary.

"Have you spoken to Linnea Charles recently?"

Now Jordan was snapped back to the conversation at hand, instantly wary. "How recently do you mean?"

"In the past twenty-four hours, I guess. But more specifically in the last twelve."

"Um…Look, I'm sorry, Karl, but I'm not sure who you are, exactly, so I'm not entirely sure how much I should share with you—"

"Linnea left your contact information with another reporter. She'd told him that if someone came looking for her, to direct them to you. And I'm looking for Linnea. Hence, here I am, speaking to you."

"You're _looking_ for Linnea? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that she's not here. And from the sound of it, she's not where she's supposed to be, either."

"Are you saying she's missing?"

"From my perspective, yes."

Smart man. He understood that in cases like this, semantics meant everything. "When's the last time you spoke to Linnea?"

"She and I talked yesterday afternoon. She was getting ready to leave, trying to dodge some FBI agents who were coming around to ask questions."

"Oh." Jordan might have already known something about that. "OK. Well, the last time I spoke to her was around then, too. I've sent texts and left voicemails since, but no response—but it didn't exactly surprise me, because that was part of our plan."

"Your plan?"

"It's a long story."

"I've got time."

"How about you tell me yours first, and then I'll tell you mine?"

"Deal."

A half-hour later, Karl and Jordan were on level playing field, and both were fully aware of how conspicuous Linnea's absence was.

"So I guess the only question now is: where is she really?" Jordan surmised. Karl gave a hum of agreement. "Look, I, um—I have to get some other people involved, if we want to find out what's really going on here. But we can trust them, I promise. Just…let me make a few calls, and then I'll get back to you. OK?"

"I don't see how I have any other choice," he admitted.

"No, I suppose you don't."

Jordan easily found another number in her phone, taking another deep, steadying breath as she waited for the call to go through.

"Dannie, what is it?" David Rossi's voice was filled with concern. And she loved him for it—loved him, and hated her own actions which caused the concern in the first place.

"Dave, I know I'm not supposed to be involved anymore, but—something's happened. It just fell in my lap, sort of. I think you guys need to know."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Spencer Reid and Jessalyn Keller were taking a lap around the outside of the building when Keller's cellphone buzzed with a text. She stopped walking, letting Spencer continue on ahead on his own. At first, he hadn't realized that she'd stopped, mainly because his mind was still busy trying to unravel the tangled mess of evidence in his head. Jessalyn had sensed that his silence was due to thoughtfulness, and she'd politely refrained from attempting any kind of conversation, though she would respond friendly enough when he did speak to her.

Not that there was much to talk about—she'd refused to answer his questions about the morning briefing, had refused his request to speak to his team (again), and had refused to confirm or deny any other pieces of evidence, even the ones he already knew about. And he had no other topic that he wanted to discuss. So they mainly kept in silence.

When he did realize that his walking companion was no longer beside him, Spencer turned back to see what was wrong—though the smile on her face implied that something might very well be right.

"Jude and Joe found your phone," she announced, hurrying to catch up to him again.

"And that's a good thing, right?"

"It could be. So long as you're as innocent as you claim to be."

* * *

 _ **Evidence Lab, FBI Main Building.**_

Rowena Lewis was so engrossed in Fuller's journal that she didn't hear the knock on the door—the second series of raps, louder and slightly more insistent, ripped her back into reality easily enough.

She was on her feet in a flash, opening the door with a little more emphasis than necessary. Scott O'Donnell had assigned them a team of four other evidence analysts who all worked at the Quantico lab to help sift through the "non-sensitive" materials, as Mac had labeled them before her departure—and Rowena had quickly noticed that the two younger men had taken to immediately trying to win her attentions, which was why she'd sequestered herself in another part of the lab. Her reasoning was twofold: one, it allowed her some peace and quiet to devote full attention to her task, and two, it made her seem cold and aloof—good tactics for quashing any budding feelings of amorous intent. However, if those saps starting seeking her out, she'd have to pull out the stops and be more aggressive in her actions.

As expected, it was one of her young quickly-becoming-enamored colleagues. Martin. Or Marvin. Or…something like that.

"Yes." It was a statement, not a question—she was present, but she wasn't offering help.

"Ah, yeah—the drawer that Mac wanted me to take a look at—"

"I'm aware of its existence, but I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Last night, she noticed the drawer was unlocked, and there wasn't a key—I took photos of it, and she had us bring it back to the lab for closer inspection. She asked me to see how recently the lock had been used."

"And you're coming to me because…?"

"Well, I have an answer."

"Congratulations."

"I mean, I thought you could let her know."

She fished her phone out of her back pocket, "How about this? I'll give you her number, and you can tell her yourself."

"Um, sure, yeah, I guess—you could just text me her contact card…"

She glanced up at him again, an amused smirk on her features—she had to give this kid points for so smoothly trying to get her number. "Or I could just read it aloud to you, and you can put it in your phone yourself. Cut out the middle man, as it were."

He looked slightly crestfallen at her deflection. She stifled a silent laugh before giving him Mac's cell number.

"And one more thing," she offered a slight smile. "If you'd come out and asked for my number directly, I probably would've given it to you."

"Really?"

"Really. But you didn't, so I guess we'll never know for sure, now will we?" She gave a theatrical shrug and one last smile before moving to close the door. However, a sudden thought struck her and she popped her head out again. "Hey, um…"

"Marvin."

"Right. Mac's probably smack in the middle of her daughter's graduation—she probably won't take the call. What did you find?"

"She was right. The lock had been used, frequently and recently, judging on how well it was oiled and the amount of dust surrounding the key hole and in the gears."

"So…the drawer had a lock on it, which was apparently well-used…and yet, when you guys showed up at the scene—"

"It was unlocked and the key was missing. We searched the house for it, never found it."

"And what is your inference, based on this evidence?"

Marvin seemed surprised that she'd even ask for his opinion. With a shrug and a slight flop of his hands, he hazarded, "Someone else was there. They took the key when they killed Fuller. Doesn't make sense, though—why take the key if the drawer's already unlocked? Why not lock the drawer and _then_ take the key?"

Roe frowned as she considered his words. "Valid point, Marvin. Thanks for the info—we'll pass it along in the next briefing."

He smiled, nodded, and headed back down the hall. To his credit, he didn't attempt to flirt with her. She realized that if he'd asked, she actually would have given him her number. And once the case was over, she would have even let him take her out to dinner, enjoyed a quick roll in the sack and sent him on his way. So maybe it was a good thing that he'd ruined his chances.

She'd barely settled back into her reading when the door flew open—no knock, no polite attempts to warn her. It was Jeff Masterson, of course.

"So my journal succeeds at being the most boring thing I've ever read." He held up the notebook to emphasize his point. "Anything good in yours?"

"No, not so far. But mine seems pretty focused on technical aspects at this point." She cocked her head to one side in curiosity. "Any mention of Reid?"

"Not yet. But some oh-so-fascinating finer points on the cultivation of TATP."

The sarcasm was not lost on his partner, who gave a wry smirk. However, it soon melted back into an expression of mild dismay. "Mine has one mention of Reid, so far."

"Well, you're catching more than I am on this fishing expedition," Jeff glanced down at his notebook again.

"Doesn't make sense," she murmured, slowly sinking back into the world of her reading. She wasn't sure what she'd expected to find, but Fuller's writings made him seem so…normal. Mundane. His words were direct and succinct without being too clinical, an almost-unbiased narrative that held all the adventure and pizzazz of a technical manual. "Why mention your co-conspirator's name at all, really?"

"Insurance purposes," Jeff reminded her, equally distracted by his work.

A beat of silence followed. Without looking up, Roe spoke, "Did you really come in here to tell me that useless bit of information?"

"Yep. And I wanted to know if you were ready for lunch."

"What, ya think I can't fend for myself?"

"I think if I let you walk out of here alone, the two newest members of your fan club will be sure to follow, and I'd really like them to keep working—the sooner they finish their tasks, the sooner we get this place back to ourselves."

She grinned at his dry and nonchalant tone. "Can't say that's a bad point."

"Of course not. I don't do bad points."

"Cocky."

"Been hanging around you too long."

"Also a valid point."

"Like I said," he didn't finish the rest of the comment, merely turning the page in his journal. Then he frowned. He turned back a page, then flipped it again, his brow furrowing even deeper.

Roe immediately sensed something was amiss. She stopped reading, her hazel eyes flicking up to watch her partner.

"Look at this," he handed her the notebook. She set down her own and took his. He nodded to the bottom of the page. "This sentence ends. Thought completed. Now turn the page."

The back of the page was blank—a not uncommon occurrence, they'd realized, whenever Fuller had used a pen with particularly dark ink (and a smart move—it kept the pages legible). She turned her attention to the next page.

"See? Picks up mid-sentence." Jeff pointed out.

"And it's written with a different pen," Roe commented, turning the page back and forth again to check. "So there's a page missing. Well, two pages, technically—a page written on, front and back."

Jeff was on his feet, moving to the other section of the room, where more plastic tubs of notebooks awaited them—they'd hauled all of the bins into this small backroom, deciding it was better to keep them out of sight, lest too-curious coworkers were tempted to take a peek and find something they weren't supposed to know just yet.

He found the faux suicide note, which had been included in the bins, still encased in its clear slick protective cover. He returned to Rowena's side, holding out the paper.

She squinted for a moment. "Doesn't look like the same ink. Slightly lighter."

He flipped the paper over. "And this page ends on a complete sentence, too."

"So we're missing a page from this journal, and it isn't the page we already knew was missing." Roe surmised with a small, slow nod. After a beat, her gaze snapped back to her partner, "Which box is yours from?"

He moved back across the room, searching for the answer to the question—Mac had made a cheat sheet, listing each box and its contents, with a diagram on the back to show its original location. That sheet was currently on a clipboard atop one of the boxes.

"Mine is from the desk drawer."

"Ah, shit," she suddenly remembered. "One of my fans informed me that the lock on the desk drawer that Mac had brought in was indeed used regularly—although they never found a key on site for it."

"So a drawer that's usually locked, suddenly unlocked with no key," Jeff stopped, looking up to stare blankly across the room as his mind considered this bit of news. "And right after a man is killed—a man who by all looks appears to be a patsy."

"Yeah," Roe mimicked his movements, setting down the journal and turning her attention to her partner. "Doesn't make sense, does it? I mean, if the killer knew about the journals, surely he'd know that he was probably mentioned in them—so why take the chance? Why leave them?"

He lightly tossed the clipboard back onto the counter and announced, "I think we've been looking at this wrong, Roe."

"Whaddya mean?" He could feel her shift behind him, sitting up straighter, fully aware of some new game afoot.

"We're assuming the killer knew about the notebooks—but did he know about _all_ of them?"

"Possibly. Possibly not." Her wheels were turning now, she was quickly catching up. "You're thinking maybe he knew about the ones in the desk drawer, not the ones hidden inside the books on the shelf?"

Jeff hummed in affirmation. He heard Rowena shifting again, and he glanced over to see his partner on her phone.

"Something more important to attend to, Agent Lewis?"

She gave a wry smirk. "I'm looking for places that deliver to Quantico. I'm not touching the mess hall food again, and something tells me that we aren't going to leave this room for quite a while."

He glanced back at the row of evidence tubs, and he knew she was right—their next briefing was less than two hours away, which meant they needed to spend every second that they could scouring the notebooks for something useful to bring to the table.

With a light sigh, he returned to the seat next to Rowena's, taking his journal back in hand. He wasn't a man adverse to a little reading, but Fuller's at-turns clinically boring instructions and rabidly off-kilter ramblings weren't exactly the kind of thing he enjoyed spending time on. He needed some kind of incentive.

"Race ya."

"M'kay." Rowena's tone was one of guarded amusement. She never looked up from her phone. "Wanna make it a wager?"

He grinned—his partner was just a fiercely competitive as he was, which meant their working relationship was often filled with bets and taunts and dares. "Alright."

"Terms?" She held out her hand, as if awaiting a physical list.

"Last one to finish their journal has to present the new evidence at the next briefing."

"Deal."

"Just remember, I'm a faster reader than you are. I took a course in speed-reading."

"A _course_? As in you spent money and time on learning to read faster?"

"It's a valuable and vital skill, Agent Lewis."

"Right. A valuable and vital skill that still won't keep me from totally schooling you."

"Nope, pretty sure I'm already ahead of you."

"If I murder you now, you won't get past the next page."

"And I won't be able to give the presentation, either."

"Ah, foiled again."

He was grinning like a cheshire cat now, and he didn't have to look over to know that she was smiling just as madly. After a beat, he added, "You ever notice how frequently and easily you threaten to kill me, Agent Lewis?"

"It's a term of endearment."

"Right…there are five love languages. Which one involves threatening the object of your affection with death or other grievous bodily harm?"

"Probably the sixth one." Now she frowned. "Pizza, burgers, or Thai?"

"Burgers."

She gave a slight sound that implied she'd known he would give such an answer.

"We should tell Mac what we've found," he commented quietly.

"She's busy watching her kid graduate. Give her a few hours to pretend that this isn't waiting for her the second she gets back," Rowena informed him, still focused on her online ordering. She didn't ask him what he wanted—she knew how he liked his burgers, even down to the fact that he'd order pickles just to give them to her, just like she'd order tomato to give to him. "Besides, we're not really sure what we've found, yet."

He didn't reply, but his silence was one of agreement. Rowena finished her online order, set down her phone, and resumed her reading. A comfortable silence reigned.

Then Jeff shifted slightly. He flipped back to the previous page, then back again. "Looks like I've got another missing page."

Roe leaned forward to inspect his notebook, as if it held any clues to the page's disappearance. Whoever had taken those pages made sure to make it look clean—there wasn't a single scrap of paper leftover in the spiral, no tell-tale evidence that any pages had been removed at all.

"You don't have any missing pages," Jeff stated, his words slow, as if he were considering the implication. "And your notebooks were stashed away. Mine have pages missing, mine were in plain view in a desk drawer that was apparently frequently locked, yet unlocked and with no key present when they found Benjamin Fuller's body."

"So…the killer knew about the notebooks in the desk, and after killing Benjamin, went through and removed all references to himself." Rowena surmised with a flat tone and expressionless face. "Still doesn't explain why he left the notebooks at all."

"So we would know." Jeff's voice was filled with quiet certainty. "So we would know that Benjamin Fuller was the one who did this. So we'd stop looking, because we knew we had our guy."

"But…Fuller's death was easily proven as homicide, not suicide," Rowena's brow furrowed. "I mean, why go through all that trouble—finding a passage to serve as a faux suicide note, removing any mention of Fuller having some kind of collaborator…only to leave behind evidence that you'd been there—that you'd _murdered_ him?"

"Things like that can devolve quickly, get out of hand." Jeff gave a small shrug, flipping through a few pages of his notebook, looking for more spots where pages had been removed, "Maybe the killer wasn't as ready as he thought—he lost control, he botched the murder. But you can't undo a bullet hole. He didn't have any choice but to leave Fuller as he was."

"Or maybe he did," his partner looked down at the journal in her lap. "Maybe the killer knew we'd figure this much out. Maybe he wanted us to—maybe he wants us to know that there's someone else, someone we can't find, someone who outsmarted us, who got away."

Jeff exhaled loudly. "It's possible. In fact, I'd say it's very possible."

He held up his notebook to emphasize his point, "Mine finally has a reference to someone other than Fuller. No name. Just masculine third person singular pronouns."

"So our killer didn't remove all references to himself," Roe concluded. "Because he didn't think he needed to. He thinks he's invincible—even if we know of his existence, he truly believes we still won't be able to catch him."

"Then I guess he really doesn't know us, does he?" Jeff turned his full attention back to his partner. Her hazel eyes flicked back up to meet his blue ones, the right corner of her mouth hitching into the briefest of smiles.

"Nah. He has no idea who he's up against."

* * *

" _Even in its darkest passages, the heart is unconquerable. It is important that the body survives, but it is more meaningful that the human spirit prevails."_ _  
~_ _Dave Pelzer._


	15. Complications

**Complications**

" _History as well as life itself is complicated—neither life nor history is an enterprise for those who seek simplicity and consistency."_ _  
_ _~Jared Diamond_ _._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: This chapter contains a reference to Henry Grace, aka Professor Rothschild (from 4.8 Masterpiece). Quick refresher, just in case you forgot: a psychopathic narcissist with god complex and an obsession with the Golden Ratio and the Fibonacci sequence, Grace challenged Rossi and Reid to a "game", in which he gave them clues to see if they could rescue his latest victims, who were still alive. Although his revenge was directed at Rossi, early on in the episode he makes it clear that Spencer Reid is the only person deemed "smart enough" to truly understand what was going on.***_

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

"I know it seems impossible, but I think things just got a little more complicated," David Rossi announced as he re-entered the apartment. His phone had rung, and he'd stepped outside to answer it—though not before everyone else heard him address Jordan Strauss. Morgan had merely glanced over at Emily, whose concerned expression implied that she was already well-aware of Erin Strauss' daughter's involvement in the case.

"Well, good to see the BAU's usual run of luck hasn't changed," Emily Prentiss deadpanned. Penelope would've laughed if it hadn't been quite so true.

"What's wrong?" Derek stepped forward slightly, his facial features slipping into a look of cautious concern.

"Jordan just called," the older man held up his phone as if to emphasize his point. "Apparently Linnea Charles is missing—but not like before, where she's just been avoiding us."

He quickly relayed the tale that Jordan had told him—how Linnea's _Daily_ records hadn't shown her logging in to work, although she was supposedly sequestered away to write, how the only person who'd had contact with her was her husband, who'd only communicated with her via text, how she'd already predicted that perhaps something would happen to her and put safety measures in place.

Once Rossi was finished, Morgan gave a small shake of his head, "The texting doesn't mean anything—anyone could send a text pretending to be her. There have been dozens of missing persons cases where friends and family didn't know the person was missing because their killer or kidnapper pretended to be them, checking in via text."

The Italian nodded in agreement, "That was Dannie's thought, too—and the guy who called her, Karl Miramontz, who works with Linnea, felt the same."

"So…what?" Emily looked around, as if confused. "Does Jordan want us to go find her?"

"I don't think we have much choice," Rossi admitted. "Linnea is Maeve's sister. She's just as much a part of this as Reid—and even if she isn't missing, she still has a lot of questions to answer for us."

"Alright then," Morgan gave a curt nod of agreement, turning back to Penelope. "Babydoll, let's see what kind of magic you can work for us."

His blonde companion never looked up from her computer, but she gave a smirk in response. "Oh, my lover-love, I'm already on it."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Every fiber of Judith Eden's body was practically singing with nervous anticipation by the time she handed the phone over to Sura Roza. The technical analyst quickly plugged in a charger, quietly reminding everyone in the room, "It's probably going to be a few minutes before I'm able to actually turn it on."

"Just let us know when you've got something," Dawson informed her, turning his attention back to Jonas and Jude. "We've got plenty of other things to focus on."

Like Judith, Jack Dawson found the recovery of Spencer Reid's cellphone to be nothing short of miraculous—though he still remained wary as to whether or not this would actually help their case.

"Good work with the phone," he spoke quietly, giving a curt nod of approval to both his agents. However, the dark line of his brows hardened as he added, "I just spoke to the handwriting analyst a few minutes ago, and his initial finding is that the list of addresses was, in fact, written by Dr. Reid."

Jude's big brown eyes widened a fraction of an inch—she'd fought down the urge to protest, but she couldn't keep from at least questioning the edict. She glanced at her watch. "He's only had the sample for a few hours—things like that can take _days_ —"

"Which is why I used the phrase _initial_ finding," Jack pointed out, a slight edge slipping into his tone. "But this guy has also been doing this for a very long time—he's one of the best there is, and he wouldn't commit to stating such a thing unless he was fairly certain."

"Of course," Jonas spoke quietly, his hand going out to gently touch Judith's hip, as if trying to calm her down and reassure her that they were all still on the same team. Earlier that morning, when the Flying Js had assembled for their own private briefing at the start of the day, Jack had agreed—and even encouraged them—to approach the day's evidence collection from the angle of proving Reid's innocence, not his guilt. But this new information obviously went against that idea.

"We've gotta look at this from every angle, Jude," he reminded his friend, whose dark look curtly informed him that she was well aware of how to run an investigation, thank you very much.

"Round up Fuller's coworkers," Dawson instructed. "See what they can tell us—we need to know if he ever had contact with Dr. Reid, and how and when. Then we'll have to go back to his mother, ask her about his apparent fascination with the Amerithrax case."

"I'll do that," Jude volunteered. "We established a rapport last night—she'll talk to me, I think."

Her unit chief gave a curt nod.

Jonas' phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket to see a text from Sura Roza—a list of all the agents in Benjamin Fuller's unit, with contact information. He glanced across the room, where the technical analyst was merely smiling. He pointed at her, raising his eyebrows ( _damn, you're good_ ). She shrugged, flicking her eyes heavenward in smug self-satisfaction ( _don't I know it_ ).

"I'll start calling in coworkers," Jonas held up his phone, heading out into the hallway. Jude moved to follow him, but Jack's hand on her arm kept her in the room.

"Jude," his voice was quiet, lined with caution. "Should I be concerned here?"

"I don't know," her voice dipped lower to match his tone. "You're the one doubting me, so should _I_ be concerned?"

He didn't deny the fact that he was doubting her. "I can't afford to have an agent who's biased—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, if I have to hear one more line about my bias, I swear I'll scream bloody murder. Yes, I like Dr. Reid, but that has no bearing on how I do my job—I just happen to know that he's innocent, because the facts don't fit. The facts don't fit, and neither does the motivation—and I'd see that, regardless of who we had in custody. That's not bias, Jack. That's being a good investigator and trusting my gut."

She took a moment to let her words sink in—her voice remained low and even, but the bitter chastisement still made itself felt. However, she adopted a gentler tone, almost pleading as she added, "And you'd know it, too, if you'd just trust your instincts. You said last night that something was off—and last night, when you took us aside, you said—"

"I remember what I said," he interrupted quietly. "And I also remember telling you that we were not to speak of it outside that room."

She gave a sigh as she rolled her eyes—obviously, she found his prior command to be ridiculous, but she was smart enough to keep from verbally expressing her feelings.

"And regardless of what I _think_ is happening, we still have to look at this from every angle," he reminded her.

"It's just an initial finding," she retorted gently. And he understood why she was bringing up the handwriting analysis again—because she thought that the expert's commentary was what had changed Dawson's outlook on Reid's innocence.

"I know," was his only response. "Now go talk to Della Fuller. Shostakovich and I will handle the coworkers."

She gave a quick nod of agreement before disappearing out the door. With a light sigh, Jack turned back to Sura, whose wary expression informed him that she'd heard most of the exchange, despite their low tones.

"Is this thing over yet?" He asked wearily.

All he got was a sad sympathetic smile in return.

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

Kate Callahan had to admit, the rest of her BAU colleagues handled crisis like champs. She and Hotch had returned to Penelope's apartment after the morning briefing, only to find David Rossi preparing some kind of Italian dish with a little help from Derek Morgan, who seemed intent on driving the old man insane by suggesting "improvements" to the recipe. Hotch and Callahan had joined Penelope on barstools, watching the lunch prep from across the counter—Kate had gotten a nostalgic prickle from all the times she'd sat like this in her mother's kitchen, watching her prepare meals while discussing those seemingly-life-shattering moments of teenage existence.

Except they weren't talking about this week's crush or who-asked-who to the dance. Hotch quickly caught everyone up to speed on what had been discussed at the briefing—adding his own exchange with Dawson afterwards and his suspicion that something was going on behind the scenes, to which the others agreed. There was also a round of delight at the announcement that Alex Blake was coming down to join them. Kate began to feel slightly overwhelmed—she still hadn't met Emily Prentiss, due to the fact that Emily had already left to visit JJ by the time they'd returned. She wondered how she would deal with meeting the woman whom she'd replaced, and the woman who'd been replaced by the one she'd replaced. From what she gathered, both Blake and Prentiss had left by their own volition, and had done so on very good terms with their team (otherwise, why would they be returning to help?), but there was still the idea of being placed next to these two women, both of whom were so obviously loved and missed by their coworkers, and being held in some kind of comparison.

Once Hotch had finished, it was Rossi's turn to inform him about Linnea Charles' supposed disappearance, and Jordan's unsurprising involvement in relaying the information. Garcia had already done some online sleuthing in regards to Linnea, which she presented as they sat down to eat.

"So, this is what I've got so far," Penelope announced, settling into her own seat at the very-crowded dining table. "Linnea Charles hasn't used any of her credit cards in the past twenty-four hours, none of her social media accounts have been updated—though for Linnea, that's not particularly uncommon. She seems to only use Twitter to promote her work as a journalist, so she wouldn't be tweeting anything until her next article was out anyways. Aside from her connection to Maeve, she doesn't have anything remarkable in her history—"

"Aside from the fact that someone emailed her about a bombing before it actually happened—under Reid's email," Rossi pointed out.

"Right. Aside from that little bit."

"Man, this is good," Morgan was referring to the food.

"Mm-hm. That's because we followed the _original_ recipe," Rossi reminded him, a bit darkly. "You don't fix what ain't broken—especially when it's this good."

"I'm just saying, a little thyme wouldn't have been a bad idea," Morgan held up his hands in a gesture of defense. "Thyme works with just about everything."

"Pardon me, Julia Childs, but if we could return to the topic at hand?" Hotch raised one eyebrow in an expression of longsuffering.

Callahan snorted at the comparison, ducking her head to avoid Morgan's gaze.

As usual, Aaron Hotchner kept an absolutely straight face, turning his attention back to Garcia, "So what evidence do we actually have to suggest she's missing?"

"Well…nothing, really," Garcia shrugged. "Just her coworker saying that she's not responding when she totally should be."

"But her husband states that she has been responding to him," Hotch pointed out. Garcia gave a curt nod of affirmation. He turned his attention back to his lunch, quietly deciding, "Find the address to the grandmother's house. Rossi, when Prentiss gets back, you two can go check it out."

"Why Emily?" Derek asked.

"Because she's here as a private citizen—and considering the fact that we technically aren't working the case, we might need to use that to our advantage." Hotch glanced at his watch again. "The next briefing is in an hour—Callahan and I will go. Garcia, I want you to look into Linnea Charles' past. See what other connections she has to her sister's case, to anyone at Quantico, or the Bureau in general. There has to be something there that we just haven't found yet."

"And what about me?" Derek sat back slightly, obviously distraught at the thought of sitting around and twiddling his thumbs.

"Stay here with Garcia until Blake calls—she'll need someone to pick her up from the airport."

Morgan wasn't happy with his assignment, but he knew better than to complain. Rossi gave him a sympathetic smile—none of them liked the idea of standing idly by when one of their own was in danger, even if it was necessary.

Not for the first time today, Morgan wondered what Spencer was doing—how he was holding up, if his little genius brain had figured it out, if he was being well-treated, if he'd found a way to calm himself down from what was certainly a panicked state at the thought of being labelled a terrorist.

Derek Morgan didn't believe in telepathy, or metaphysical connections. But he wished he did, in that moment. He wasn't sure what he'd say exactly, if he could reach out to Reid. He'd reassure him that they were on the case, that they'd get him out—to hold on and hang tight, because they'd all die before they let him take the fall for this maniac.

That wasn't right. This guy wasn't a maniac. He was delusional, but not unhinged. He was sociopathic, or psychopathic, but he wasn't schizophrenic. An organized-yet-deluded individual.

Like John Curtis.

"Let's call a spade a spade," he announced to the table. "This guy is trying to be the next John Curtis. We can dance around the similarities all we want, but at the end of the day, they're still there."

There was a look of caution around Hotch's dark eyes, but he didn't interrupt or refute Morgan's claim. Last night, Morgan had stated the same thing, but Hotch had been quick to remind everyone that it was just a working theory. But in Morgan's mind, it also happened to be the only theory that made sense.

"Reid's the smart kid of the group—taking him on is the ultimate challenge, right? I mean, Curtis did it, Henry Grace did it….any narcissist with a modicum of intelligence immediately zeroes in on Reid as their worthy adversary. It's almost a given," Morgan sat back, making a tossing gesture with his hand, as if physically throwing the fact on the table. "We're looking at Linnea and the email as an indicator of some kind of connection to Maeve. But what do all three of those have in common? Reid."

Callahan squinted as she followed the train of thought, "So, we've been looking at this as the UNSUB choosing Reid because of his past with Maeve—and you're saying we should look at it the other way? Like, the guy chose to contact Maeve's sister because of her connection to Reid?"

"Reid's the target. His connection to Maeve is secondary." Morgan pointed out. "We don't need to look at how Linnea is connected to the FBI, or to Spencer—because it isn't about how, it's about the fact that she simply is connected to Reid in some way, through Maeve."

"Our UNSUB chose Reid because, by virtue of his intellect, he'd be the hardest to fool, in theory," Hotch surmised. "And then he built a case around events that had happened in Reid's life."

"I can buy that," Rossi gave a curt nod of approval. "Still doesn't explain why the UNSUB chose to target the BAU at all."

"It's not the BAU," Callahan motioned towards Morgan, as if highlighting his theory. "It's just Reid. Because he's not just seen as the smartest person in the BAU—he's considered one of the smartest people in the entire _Bureau_."

"Exactly," Morgan pointed back to her.

"All of this would point to a kind of obsession," Hotch gave a slight shake of his head, implying that he still wasn't sold on that angle, which Morgan had proposed during last night's discussion.

"Setting up an elaborate trap around one man seems pretty obsessive to me," Rossi commented drolly.

"We haven't seen anything in the way of actual evidence," Morgan reminded him. "Who knows? This guy could have all sorts of things on Reid."

"But if he was obsessive, wouldn't the evidence further prove that Reid is in fact a target, not an accomplice?" Callahan pointed out before taking another bite of her lunch.

"The level of detail suggests a personal vendetta," Rossi's voice was distracted, as if his mind were taking him down a distant path. "I mean, sure, choose Reid because he's supposed to be the hardest to beat. But the level of planning that went into this, the lengths this guy went to, just to set Reid up—doesn't that seem extremely personal? Would you go that far to frame someone who didn't really have any kind of connection to you?"

"If you were trying to prove to the Bureau that you were smarter than everyone else in it, you would," Morgan shrugged.

Penelope Garcia had been very quiet throughout, her big Bambi eyes merely darting from person to person as they spoke. However, she finally broke her silence, "Wait…so it this about Reid or not? Because you've all implied that it's both all about him, and that it really isn't about him personally at all."

"Both. And neither," Rossi responded in a flat tone. "At this point, it could be either option."

Penelope gave a heavy sigh. For some reason, she didn't find that entirely comforting.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Wait, Benjamin? You think _Benjamin_ was somehow a part of this?"

Jonas Shostakovich took a beat to simply observe Michael Carroll, the unit chief of the Cyber Crime Division, better known as the CCD. Carroll seemed genuinely surprised at the idea.

"That's not what I said," Jonas corrected quietly. "I simply said that we believe whoever killed Agent Fuller might be connected to the bombing."

A stipulation, a slight re-arranging of words, but a necessary lie. The human mind was an extraordinary thing—if told that a certain person was guilty, you could suddenly recall a thousand moments of suspect behavior that really weren't indications of motive or guilt at all.

That seemed to ease Carroll's nerves, because the man sank back into his chair slightly.

"Now, did he ever mention any friends, any new acquaintances in the past few months?" Jonas kept his tone even, neutral, unaffected.

Carroll frowned as he tried to remember. "I don't think so…but Benjamin was a pretty aloof character—no, not aloof, just…reserved."

"What's the difference?"

"Well, aloof would imply that he had some kind of superiority complex, and he didn't. He spoke when spoken to, and was quite polite—not outgoing or overly friendly, but not rude, either."

"Did any of the other agents in your unit spend a lot of time with him?"

"No…I mean, not that I noticed. But it never seemed to bother Benjamin, either. You know, sometimes you can tell when someone's lonely, when they're desperate to fit in or make friends—but I never got that vibe from him. He seemed pretty content with being left alone."

"And did you? Leave him alone?"

"Well, as much as I could, given the fact that I'm still his supervisor and we're still part of a team." Carroll made an expansive gesture with his hands, as if implying that he was merely a cog in a greater machine. "I mean, Benjamin was smart, he worked quickly and he didn't need constant supervision. That's the key to being a good supervisor—learning how each person works best, and allowing them the space to work like that. Benjamin worked better when left alone. So, I left him alone."

"Hard to work alone in a bullpen full of other agents," Shostakovich commented.

"Oh, he had his own office—we all do." Carroll waved away the thought. "We have a morning briefing, go over everything we needed to handle for the day, and then go our separate ways—after all, we are doing work on computers, it's not like we need to pair off before hitting the streets. Even if we're working on the same case, our tasks have to be performed on separate computers. If a case is more intensive than usual, we might have another meeting or two throughout the day, but most of the time we communicate via email. Our type of work doesn't really fit the bullpen mentality."

"I see." Jonas was getting the sinking feeling that no one in Fuller's unit was going to be able to help. Still, he tried, "And you never heard Benjamin mention any new friends in passing—maybe he mentioned running into another agent, from another department?"

He couldn't directly ask if Fuller had ever mentioned Spencer Reid. People would get suspicious, ask questions—it would go against Jack Dawson's command that they keep Dr. Reid's arrest as quiet as possible.

Carroll shook his head, "Nope. But then again—as I said before—I didn't really have a lot of personal chats with Benjamin. I did try, in the beginning—but he seemed to want no part of it."

"How d'ya mean?"

"Well, if you started talking to him about anything other than work, he'd quickly divert the conversation back to it—or he'd politely excuse himself and go back to his office, to work. It was like everything else was a waste of time to him. Pretty soon, everyone in the unit realized that Benjamin wasn't the chummy type, and we pretty much let him be."

Let him be. If only Carroll and the rest of Fuller's coworkers had realized just how dangerous that decision would become.

* * *

"You know, I kinda wondered if he had Asperger's or something like that," admitted Antoine Harlan, another one of Fuller's unit team members who was currently being interviewed by Jack Dawson. "He had some of the signs—poor interpersonal skills, laser-like focus on a particular area of interest. And he was quiet. Like, quieter than a normal person would be, even if they were shy. But if he did have Asperger's, it was…well, he'd definitely been given the tools to cope."

"Explain." Dawson frowned slightly, intrigued by this assumption.

"He could make eye contact. He seemed able to read people's pitch and tone—like he could tell when they were joking or being sarcastic or whatever, and he didn't seem to take things literally." Antoine opened his hands as he explained. "So, if he did have Asperger's, it had to be mild. It was a thought that only crossed my mind every now and then, ya know?"

"You seem to be pretty knowledgeable about the condition."

"My sister has it." Antoine gave a wide grin. "She's a professor at MIT."

He was proud of his sister, anyone could see that. And he'd obviously had front-row seats to the condition for most of his life—so his words weren't meant lightly. This was the first time anyone had mentioned such a thing in regards to Benjamin Fuller, so Dawson took mental note.

It could mean something; it could mean nothing.

One detail that could mean something was the lack of emotion elicited from Fuller's peers when they were informed of his death. They were surprised, at first, maybe slightly confused, but no one seemed particularly grieved. No tears, no frantic questions—just quiet acceptance which came easily, given the fact that they'd known so little about his personal life.

"Did Agent Fuller ever mention any friends, or any other agents outside the unit?"

Antoine gave a light snort of amusement. "Absolutely not. In fact, I'm not sure I could tell you anything about him that wasn't entirely work related."

"You don't know anything about his family, his background, where he went to school?" Dawson tried to imagine not knowing any personal details about his team, the people who'd spent almost every day at his side for years now. It seemed impossible—even when you weren't trying to dig into their private lives, bits and pieces of personal history still came out from time to time. It was just part of the territory.

Antoine shook his head. "Nothing. He never mentioned a family, never had photos in his office. Never brought anyone with him to the office Christmas party—come to think of it, I'm not sure he even _went_ to an office Christmas party."

Jack's phone buzzed, and he casually checked it.

Jude, texting to inform him that Della Fuller hadn't provided any helpful details about her son's associates. However, Jude was going to stop by Fuller's cabin again, just to make sure that wasn't something else that might have been overlooked the night before.

He shot back a reply, approving of her plan and warning her to be careful at the same time. Then he returned his attention to Antione Harlan. He asked a few more questions, more out of habit than an actual belief that he was going to find some kind of useful information, and then let Agent Harlan go.

Shostakovich was in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe of the room he'd been using to conduct interviews. Once Agent Harlan was far enough away, Jack nodded towards his teammate, "Anything?"

His only answer was a slow shake of Jonas' head.

"Me either," Jack admitted.

"I have noticed something, though," Jonas spoke softly. "Both people I interviewed always referred to him as Benjamin. Never Ben. Worked with him for years, never used any kind of nickname."

Jack knew what he was getting at—humans, being generally lazy creatures, were highly prone to assigning nicknames or shortening longer names (such as Ben for Benjamin). If you worked with a person and didn't give them some kind of appellation like that, it implied a certain level of detachment, a lack of intimacy. If you still referred to them formally after years of working together, that implied an actual commitment to such detachment.

Benjamin Fuller, by all accounts, had been committed to ensuring his coworkers knew that his relationship to them was merely professional. No more, no less. He didn't encourage familiarity, and they didn't pursue it.

"Should we waste our time with the other two interviews?" Jonas asked tiredly. There were eight people in Fuller's unit—six to interview, leaving Fuller and one agent who was currently hospitalized. Jack and Jonas had each finished their second interview.

"Might as well," Jack sighed in response. He doubted it would produce anything substantial, but it was always better safe than sorry.

"I'll check with Sura—see if she's got an ETA for the others," Jonas headed down the hall. The cyber division hadn't been called in to work today, due to the fact that the main building was still without electricity, with the exception of the lab which was being powered by generators—so Sura had to call each team member and arrange for them to get to Quantico as quickly as possible.

Jack went in the opposite direction—where Jess was stationed outside the door to Spencer Reid's makeshift holding cell.

Jessalyn Keller didn't look particularly thrilled to be here. She'd found a chair and brought it into the hallway, sitting in her usual position—on the edge of the chair, turned slightly sideways, right leg crossed over left, right arm wrapped around her torso, left arm still pulled in close to her body as she held her cellphone. Self-contained, as unobtrusive as possible—typical Jess. Somehow, she even made the way she sat look like an apology.

"How's it going?" Jack asked nonchalantly, tucking his hands into his pockets as he approached.

"I'm up six levels on Trivia Crack," she intoned dryly, not even looking up from her phone. "I've also watched an alarming number of corgi videos."

"Corgis, really?"

"They're cute. And they always seem ecstatic about life." She didn't tell him that the only reason she'd even started watching said videos was because Jude had sent her a link via text. Because she'd known how dark Jessalyn's depressive state was this morning, and how much the blonde loved those ridiculously adorable little dogs. Jude couldn't be there to hold her hand or offer soothing words, but Jess never had a moment's doubt that she was still constantly in the Englishwoman's thoughts.

"Take a break," Dawson suggested, jerking his chin back down the hall. "Grab a cup of coffee, take a lap around the building."

"This isn't exactly taxing work, Jack," she retorted lightly, although she still rose to her feet. Lowering her voice, she gestured towards the closed door, "He's been in there most of the time. Pacing. Sometimes I hear him murmuring to himself."

"Can you make out what he's saying?"

She shook her head. "It's too low. But I think it's safe to say that he's probably trying to figure this whole thing out."

Dawson gave a small hum of agreement.

Jess hesitated, then quietly admitted, "He, um…he's aware, I think, of our theory."

"You think or you know?"

"Well," she gave a helpless flop of her hands. "I let it slip that we're trying to protect him. He's smart enough to infer everything else from that."

Her unit chief merely nodded.

"I'm sorry, Jack, I know we weren't supposed to say anything—"

"It's alright. I promise you, that's the least of our worries right now."

She glanced down at the floor, accepting his easy forgiveness. Then she changed the subject, "Where's everybody else?"

"Joe is checking in with Sura about the rest of Fuller's coworkers. Jude's back at Fuller's house—"

"What?" Jess looked alarmed. "Did she take backup?"

"No, it wasn't planned, exactly," Jack was slightly surprised by the force of her reaction. "She went to interview Della Fuller again, and afterwards she decided to go have another look around, just in case."

"Typical Judith Eden," Jess practically growled. "Running off alone—jesus, Jack, did you think about what could still be in that house?"

"Jess, the techs did a thorough once-over last night—"

" _Once_ -over—things can be missed. She's in a cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere, with no backup— _anything_ could happen." Jess' arm whipped out in a gesture of frustration, but she quickly pulled herself back, letting out a sigh as her hand delicately went to her forehead. "I'm sorry, Jack, I'm just—this whole Replicator-copycat-thing has me spooked."

"We're all a little spooked," Jack assured her gently, still confused by the vehemence behind her words.

"I'm gonna…go take a lap or two," she jerked her thumb down the hallway.

He nodded in agreement. She turned on her heel and headed off. Within a matter of seconds, she was on her cell, calling Jude.

"Hello." Jude didn't add _darling_ , but it was implied in her tone. Her tenderness only made Jess angrier.

"What the hell were you thinking, going to Fuller's cabin by yourself?" Jess kept her voice low, but the frustration ripping through her words was unmistakable.

"Jess, darling, it's perfectly safe—"

"I'm sure that's what everyone at Quantico thought about their office before the bombing." Jess shot back. "Why didn't you call for some kind of backup? It would've taken twenty minutes for someone to come out and meet you."

"And if the house had been rigged to explode? What good would backup do, besides provide witnesses for my death inquiry?"

The question stopped Jess cold. Even though Jude couldn't see her, she instinctively knew she'd hit a hard nerve.

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't—"

"You can't say things like that, Jude. Not in the middle of a case like this."

"I know, I shouldn't have. I'm sorry." Judith didn't try to defend herself, and for that, Jess loved her—the Englishwoman had an amazing ability to accept responsibility for her actions, without becoming defensive. It was honorable, in the humblest and hardest of ways.

Jess knew she had to make her own apologies. "I know you can handle yourself, I do. I just—it scared me, the thought of you going off alone. I don't…I don't like this case. I have a bad feeling about all this, and it only worsens when you're not near me."

Judith understood the implication—not _near me, where you can support me_ , but _near me, where I can see that you're safe_.

"Well, I'll be near you very soon," the older woman assured her. "I'm on my way back now."

"Did you find anything?"

"No. Not that I really expected to, I suppose. It was just one of those futile things you do when you don't know what else to do."

Jess hummed in understanding.

"How's Spencer?"

"Coping, I suppose," Jess answered as honestly as possible. "I haven't seen him in a few hours—he's locked himself away. If I had to guess, I'd say he's trying to unravel the whole thing in his brain."

"Can't blame him."

"No." Jess glanced up, noting the distance between herself and the Flying Js' temporary headquarters. "I've got to get back to work. I was just—"

"Calling to bawl me out?" Jude's West Sussex drawl thickened with dry amusement.

"Don't act as if you didn't deserve it, Agent Eden."

"Oh, I'm not complaining. You're very cute when you're mad."

"Cute?"

"I might have said that to enrage you further."

"You and your mind games."

"It's called flirting, Agent Keller."

"You need to take some lessons."

"Oh, I think I get by just fine. I'll give you an in-person demonstration when I get back, just to prove it."

Jess couldn't stop herself from grinning. "I'd like to see you try."

"Challenge accepted, darling."

Jess ended the call with a huff of frustrated amusement, trying to work the smile off her face before entering the Js temporary headquarters.

Jonas and Sura were in the middle of some serious discussion when Jess breezed into the room. The warm feeling instilled by her final words with Judith immediately dissipated.

"What's wrong?"

Sura shifted in her chair uneasily. "I finished searching Spencer Reid's phone."

"And?" Jess took a small step forward, her breath stopping in her lungs. Everything about Joe's body language informed her that the answer wasn't the one they wanted.

Sura Roza gave a small, slow shake of her head. "There isn't anything there. No remote access program, no spyware, nothing. That email was sent from his phone, and it had to be done by someone who had the phone in their hand at the time."

"Well," Joe gave a small, quiet sigh. "This isn't good."

Jess gave a small nod of agreement. She was equally surprised by the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat.

* * *

" _Things never work out the way we want them to."_

 _~Anton Chekhov._


	16. Both and Neither

**Both and Neither**

" _There is nothing certain, but the uncertain."_

 _~Proverb._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: This first section contains references to events in Hit/Run (7.23/7.24) and 200 (9.14).**_

 _ **The final section contains references to the backstory of how Erin Strauss became head of the Amerithrax investigation, which is also covered in Pay the Piper.**_

 _ **Also, we've got a bit of plot hole that actually extends to the series itself (again, I say, this is why CM should actually get a show bible). In Zugzwang (8.12), Hotch tells the BAU that they're working Maeve's case "unofficially", and the general canon since then has been that Maeve's case was "off books" (this story and its prequel have stuck to that idea as well). However, while re-watching the episode to research another part of this story, I realized that there was an FBI SWAT team with the BAU *TWICE* in the episode—which means, at some point, Maeve's case had to become official or otherwise get "on the books", because you can't exactly call in a Bureau SWAT team without some kind of paperwork. I did a little wiggling to try and get this to work out and still stay in-line with how this particular story has already treated Maeve's case…so, I guess be ye warned of wiggling? I don't know.***_

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

If William LaMontagne were being completely honest, he'd have to say that of all his wife's friends, he'd always been closest to Emily Prentiss. He adored Penelope's quirkiness and greatly admired Spencer's intelligence, but Emily had been the one who mirrored his own view of the world, the one who'd been a fast and firm friend from the beginning. She'd spent many hours on their couch, curled up with a glass of wine as she and JJ chatted about things, from the hilarious to the mundane to the earth-movingly somber. Will had joined them a few times, and he'd never felt like the third wheel, because Emily never treated him as simply her best friend's husband, but rather as another friend. When Matthew Downs had strapped a bomb to Will's chest, Emily had found him, had refused to abandon him, and in the end, had saved his life. And when JJ had been kidnapped, it was Emily who'd taken him into a big hug upon her arrival, promising him that she'd bring JJ home. And he'd believed her entirely—Emily Prentiss was a woman of her word, and if anyone could do it, it was her.

Which made it even harder when he had to look into the face he'd trusted so completely, so many times, and quietly tell her that she couldn't see his wife.

"I'm sorry," he reached out, gently placing a hand on her upper arm, as if somehow he could physically relay the depth of his regret. "But…JJ's not stupid. She's already asking questions, she knows something's up. And if you show up, she'll know for sure that something's happened, and I can't risk what might happen when she learns the truth—the stress could be too much for her."

"We can just tell her that I flew over, just to see her," Emily replied, and she felt a measure of guilt for the fact that it wasn't true—she _should_ have flown over, just to see JJ, the moment she learned of JJ's fall. The second she'd heard about Spencer, she'd known she was coming back—why was Spencer more important to her than JJ?

Will hesitated, and Emily knew that he was warring between wanting to protect his wife and to accommodate his friend. Again, she felt guilty for putting him in this situation.

"It's alright," she assured him quietly. "I understand."

The relief and the sorrow in his tired features was palpable. Emily felt another wave of compassion, and she pulled him into her arms. He hugged her back fiercely—she felt his chest skitter, as if he were holding back sobs.

"She's gonna be OK," Emily reminded him.

He nodded into her shoulder, "Of course she is. She's JJ."

"Exactly," Emily was grinning as she pulled away. Will was smiling too, the unmistakable redness around his eyes sending another stab of empathy through her heart.

"As soon as she's ready to deal with all that's happened, you'll be the first person I call," he promised.

She gave a quick, small nod, blinking back tears of her own. "Just focus on taking care of her. I'll be fine."

"Of course you will. You're Emily."

She grinned again at his words. Then she stepped back, titling her head towards the hospital cafeteria. "C'mon. At least let me buy you lunch, or coffee, or…something."

He glanced at the clock, and she knew that he was mentally determining if he had enough time to grab something before the next round of visiting hours.

He nodded slowly, "I've got a few minutes to waste til they let me in to see her again."

As they made their way to the elevator, Will quietly asked, "So, have you talked to Spencer yet?"

Emily made a small noise of despair, "They're keeping him sequestered, it seems."

"Poor Spence. He must be going out of his mind."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Something was wrong. Well, _more_ wrong. Obviously, something had been wrong for quite some time. Although Agent Keller hadn't been particularly chatty or otherwise intrusive, Spencer had still retreated to the solitude of his temporary holding cell, preferring to pace in relative silence as his mind tried to keep up with the short, quick steps of his feet. The room wasn't very large and he was turning quickly on his heel—he began to get the sensation of being in a whirlpool, almost unable to stop his own movements as the repetition and force of his turns seemed to work as their own orbital pull.

This was a set up. But why? And why him? As Agent Dawson had pointed out the night before, there were other people with better motives for such a crime—so why skip over them and come after him?

He hated the answer, because it made him sound egotistical: his intellect. His brain and its higher-than-normal functional abilities—he hadn't asked for it, it was a sheer accident, a luck-of-the-draw defect at birth, as random as a birthmark or an extra digit or a cleft palate. He had merely been another statistic, another blip in the whole of humanity and its probabilities. Granted, he'd nurtured that brain, had filled with many useful (and by some opinions, equally useless) things, but that had been because he couldn't _not_ give his brain these things—they were oxygen, necessary and nurturing, and to even consider not giving them to his brain was impossible.

That intellect had been a blessing and a curse. It had given him a refuge, a shield against the harsher points of his life. It had also been the source of some of those harsher points—the bullying in school, the moments when some UNSUB took it as a personal challenge to prove they were smarter and better than him.

That's how it went, with those types. Every Moriarty needed a Sherlock, every Master needed a Doctor. Even in their delusional egotism, they recognized a need for balance.

Except this wasn't balanced. In order for Spencer to be a proper equal, he had to be aware of the game at-play. He had to be aware of the rules, to be able to see the score.

The UNSUB hadn't given him that—yet.

Unless the UNSUB thought that Reid already knew. Unless he'd left something behind that he thought was so obvious that Spencer would pick it up right away.

 _The answer's already here. You just have to look, really look._

He was momentarily distracted by the sound of voices in the hallway. Keller, unsurprisingly, and…Dawson. Did he have news? Was there new evidence, a new development?

Reid stopped, straining to hear what was being said.

No news, it seemed. Dawson's voice was low, calm, tired sounding, though Reid couldn't make out the words. If he'd found something, he'd sound more energetic, more…emotional, whether it be relief or anger or disappointment.

Keller was speaking again. However, her voice went even lower, even softer—like she knew that he was listening and she didn't want to be overheard.

So they were talking about Spencer now. He resumed his pacing. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what they were saying now.

"What?" Keller's voice was clear now, raised and edged with panic. Whatever Dawson had told her, it wasn't welcome news. Her voice dropped back down again, but there was no mistaking the quick and agitated tone.

Things quickly calmed down, and then one of the agents walked away. Reid opened the door (Keller hadn't bothered to lock him in, seeing as she was outside the whole time).

Dawson was the one who'd stayed behind.

"Hello," the older man offered simply, his expression meticulously blank. Spencer was instantly reminded of Hotch.

"When can I speak to my team?" He asked, directly but not rudely.

Dawson considered the question. "I'm not sure."

"Is there any particular reason that I can't speak to them?"

"Oh, there are several, I'd say."

"Such as?"

Now Dawson merely offered a tight smile, one that didn't reach his eyes.

Reid switched gears, "Keller said that you were protecting me."

"Yeah, she told me about that," Dawson neither confirmed nor denied the veracity of Keller's claim. He cocked his head to one side. "Do you believe her?"

"I don't know." Spencer admitted honestly. "I don't know if I can believe anyone about anything, right now."

"Except your team, of course."

Spencer took a page from Dawson's playbook and simply offered a mirthless smile in response.

"Well, the good news is that you don't have to believe Keller. You don't have to trust her, either—or any of us, for that matter. You just have to sit tight."

"I would like to see all the evidence against me."

"Not at this particular moment, Dr. Reid."

"I have a right—"

"You and I both know that I don't have to show any of the evidence against you until we go to court, Doctor." Dawson returned easily.

"And you and I both know this won't make it to court," Reid shot back. "My team will find the person responsible, and they will prove without a doubt that I was set up."

Dawson took a beat to study the younger man. "You have absolute faith in your colleagues, don't you?"

"Of course," he didn't hesitate.

"And you trust them with your life."

"I do and I have, many times. And honestly, that's probably the only reason I'm standing here now," Spencer answered quietly, his voice heavy with conviction.

Dawson nodded. Then, he gave an almost-regretful sigh. "Well, Dr. Reid, I'm afraid that I don't have the luxury of having such faith in your fellow teammates. So for the time being, you'll be kept away from them."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Spencer asked.

The sound of rapid footsteps echoed down the hall—Jessalyn Keller was making her way back to them. Dawson turned his attention to her. The dark and troubled look on her features spoke of ill news.

"You'll have to excuse me, Doctor," Dawson pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against, hurrying to meet Keller halfway down the hall.

Reid watched them—they spoke in low tones, but Keller's gaze flicked over Dawson's shoulder, towards him.

The look in her eyes made his stomach sink.

Something was wrong. Even more wrong.

* * *

 _ **Evidence Lab. FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Whoa, whoa," Rowena Lewis held up her hand, as if she needed to bring more attention to herself (pointless, considering Jeff was the only other person in the room). In her other hand was yet another journal. "New player on the field."

"What?" Jeff slowly lowered his notebook onto his lap.

"New pronoun at play—here's a reference to a _she_."

"Oh, a lady." Jeff immediately leaned forward in interest. "Has she got a name?"

"Not yet." Rowena flipped a few pages, scanning for an identifier.

"Any idea who she is, in relationship to Fuller or Reid?"

"Not yet."

"Well, you're not much help, are you?"

She lightly kicked towards her partner, as if shushing him with her foot. "Gimme a minute, Masterson. I've only just found her."

After a beat, Rowena declared, "Oh, she's definitely involved. Even if on a minor level. Fuller's recording a discussion with her on the concept of purification."

"What?"

"Yeah, we're at that section of the journal where he gets all weird and talking like maybe he's on 'shrooms."

"So…a girlfriend?"

"Nah. He doesn't read like a guy who had a relationship like that in his life."

"He's still human."

"He _was_ human." Roe pointed out flatly, turning a page. "Now he's just a body in the morgue."

"You're usually a little bit more empathetic," he noted, keeping his tone light and nonjudgmental.

"I don't like traitors," she stated, never looking up from her reading. "Most of the people we investigate, they don't try to hide who they are—at least not like this. They don't cultivate trust with people over several years, only to rip those same people to shreds later on."

She was talking about Fuller, of course, but also her stepfather. Jeff wondered if she realized that (though he'd certainly never point it out).

"Ah." Was his only response.

The timer on her cellphone went off.

"Well, that's our cue," she tossed the notebook onto the table as she rose to her feet. They'd set an alarm so that they wouldn't get too engrossed in their reading and miss the briefing.

Jeff was on his feet as well, setting aside his notebook and retrieving his winter jacket from the coat rack before grabbing Roe's and handing it to her. "We need to take Dawson aside before the briefing and tell him first—professional courtesy, formality, whatever."

"Agreed." She gave a curt nod of approval. "That's the way Mac would want it handled."

"I should text her about this," he was already doing just that, before Rowena could protest that their supervisor should be left in peace for a little while longer. And even though she didn't open her mouth, he could feel her disapproval loud and clear, because he simply retorted, "It's a text, Roe. She can ignore it if she wants. Who knows? She might need the distraction. College graduations are boring as hell, remember?"

* * *

 _ **Madison, Wisconsin.**_

After the graduation was over and all the happy-family and joyous-friends photos were taken, Emma declared that lunch was in order. She'd made plans to attend a party that evening with her friends and fellow graduates, so the afternoon was solely reserved for her mother and her aunt. She brought them to a local haunt of hers, promising them the best grilled turkey sandwiches they'd ever eaten.

Despite being in her twenties, Emma had no issue with being physically affectionate towards her mother, as if she were still a very small child. As soon as they were seated in the diner booth, she snuggled up to Mac's side without a second's hesitation.

"So. Mom." Emma Macaraeg leaned over to rest her head on her mother's shoulder, her amber eyes still focused on Mac's face. "What time does your flight leave?"

"Oh, it isn't—there isn't a set time," Mac admitted, realizing too late that this confession was going to open up an entire Pandora's box of questioning.

"Wait, what?" Emma sat up again.

"It's—it's a private flight. All I have to do is call the pilot an hour or two in advance, he takes care of the rest." Mac tried to act nonchalant, but her sister and her daughter weren't buying it.

Emma's brows quirked into an expression of amused befuddlement, "Mom, what kind of secret agent life are you living, now that I'm out of the house?"

From her position across the table, Joan leaned forward in curiosity, "A private flight? You didn't tell me that you'd booked a private flight, Addie, how on earth—"

"It was my coworker," Adelaide held up her hands, as if warding off the oncoming questions from both women. "He overheard me talking to Emma, trying to figure out how I was going to get here in time, and he…he didn't want me to miss such a big moment in my baby's life. He happened to know a retired pilot, and he hired the guy out."

"Wait, so you didn't have to pay for _any_ of it?" Emma's eyes became the size of saucers.

"It's that guy, isn't it?" Joan spoke at the same time. She realized her slip-up too late—Emma's mouth was as wide open as her eyes now.

"Guy? What guy? Mom, do you have a _guy_?"

"No, I do not." Adelaide answered her daughter, though her eyes were busy shooting daggers at her sister. "He's just a fellow agent, who's working this bombing case with me and who happens to have a little compassion and a lot of connections."

"So he's just a friend?"

Mac hesitated for a second too long. And a second was all it took.

Emma howled with delight, "Oh my _god_ , Mom—you _do_ have a guy!"

"I do not—"

"You hesitated—"

"She's right, you totally did," Joan piped up.

"Shut up, both of you. There is no guy—at least not a guy who's mine. He's just—"

"What's his name?" Emma leaned forward again, her eyes still dancing.

"Oh, no way in hell you're getting that information, missy," Mac informed her curtly. This only made her daughter laugh. Mac shook her head as she checked her cellphone—she'd put it on silent before the ceremony had begun, and she'd forgotten to turn the ringer back on.

There was a text message from Jeff Masterson.

 _Give us a call when you can—got a few things to catch you up on_.

She glanced around the restaurant, trying to get a visual on their waitress. The place was hopping; it would probably be a good ten minutes before their food arrived. "Look, guys, I've got to check in with my team—"

"Saved by work, yet again," Joan intoned dryly. Emma merely pushed her mother towards the edge of the booth, silently telling her to do whatever she needed to do.

"It'll only take a minute," she assured them before hurrying to the front door. One glance back at her daughter and her sister informed her that Emma was already asking Joan what she knew about her mother's mystery guy.

Great. Just great.

Strangely enough, she was fairly certain that David Rossi would be highly amused by this situation.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Funny thing, Dr. Reid," Jack Dawson was making his way back towards Reid's temporary holding cell, Agent Keller hovering over his shoulder like a Valkyrie of ill tidings.

You didn't have to be a genius to realize that Agent Dawson was certainly using the word _funny_ in an ironic context. Spencer Reid stood a little straighter, hand automatically going to his stomach, a helpless instinctual gesture to steel himself for whatever came next—given the expressions on the other two agents' faces, it certainly wasn't promising to be pleasant news.

"What's happened?" He asked, the breath leaving his lungs far too quickly to be useful.

"A few things, and none of them good," Dawson informed him curtly. "First, preliminary testing of the handwriting sample says it's a good match to yours."

Spencer didn't take much stock in that assessment—after all, he'd seen it last night, and he'd seen that it was a very good fake. It would take more than a few hours for an analyst to truly prove its inauthenticity.

However, Dawson continued, "Just now, Sura Roza did a complete run-down on your phone. There's nothing on there to indicate that someone had remote access to—"

"Remote access? Are you saying you think someone tried to hack my phone?" Reid's face screwed into a look of confusion.

"No, we're saying we wanted to rule out the possibility—and we just did," Dawson set his hands on his hips, his steely-blue eyes locked onto Spencer's brown ones. "Which means that the only person who could have sent that email was you."

"N-no," Reid felt his lungs tighten involuntarily. "There's no way—there has to be—I don't know, something had to happen. Talk to Penelope Garcia. If anyone can figure out something like this, it's her. She'll know. She'll be able to prove it."

He was talking too quickly now, he knew it, but he couldn't stop his mind from reeling—the things that were meant to prove him innocent had only further implicated his guilt. How was this possible? The nightmare was supposed to end, not darken.

Keller stepped forward, her hand coming out lightly, as if she wanted to steady him, but feared that touching him might shatter what little sanity he had left.

"I'm fine," he stepped back, further into his holding cell, further away from them. "I just—I don't understand. I've been trying to figure it out, and I still don't know. I keep thinking about Maeve, and who could've known—"

"Who could have known?" Dawson asked, his voice quiet but direct, slicing through Spencer's tangled thoughts and bringing him back to reality.

"What?"

"Maeve Donovan. We know she wasn't an official Bureau case. So who could have known about her?"

"I-I don't know. My team knew. John Curtis found out, somehow—or at least he knew about the phone booth where I used to call her, from when he was stalking the whole team." Spencer's head began to spin again as he suddenly realized just how many people had been involved—it wasn't an official case, but once they'd realized that Diane Turner was Maeve's stalker and subsequent kidnapper, Hotch was able to convince Strauss to step in and help (though now, Spencer wondered if David Rossi had been more instrumental in that requisition than their unit chief). "Chief Strauss called in a favor of sorts and got us a SWAT team from the D.C. field office. But I don't think they even knew who Maeve Donovan was—they were just back-up, they didn't get a full briefing—ah, and then after…after the shooting, the local police had to come and take over, since it wasn't technically an FBI case…so, the D.C. police, their forensics team—anyone with access to police files—"

"But were you mentioned in those reports?"

"Yes. Of course. I was…I was there."

Now Keller spoke up, gently clearing her throat, "What he means is, do the reports list your relationship to Maeve?"

Spencer suddenly understood, "No. I didn't—it didn't seem right."

Jessalyn Keller gave him a sad, small smile, and for some reason, he felt that she understood his relationship with Maeve—impossible, considering she barely knew anything about it, but he couldn't shake the feeling of solidarity.

Dawson glanced at his watch and gave an irritated sigh. The afternoon briefing was slated to start in less than five minutes. He stepped back, quickly dialing Roza's number on his cell.

"What's up?"

"Look up Maeve Donovan again—but this time, look through the DCPD database. Then look for a rollout from the D.C. FBI SWAT team on the date of Maeve's death. I need to know who signed off on it, who was part of it—I want the names of every person involved, every person who even thought about looking at that particular case or any file related to it."

"On it, sir."

He hung up and returned his attention to Reid, who was watching him like a hawk.

"I'm not saying I believe you," he held up a cautionary hand. "I'm just saying I wanna check every possibility."

Reid gave a small, slow nod, though his gaze remained wary.

"I need to talk to Jude," Dawson sighed.

"She's on her way back now," Jess informed him. She studiously ignored the slight question in his gaze.

"I've gotta get to this briefing," her unit chief turned and headed down the hall. He gave her one last glance, which implied his desire for her to continue questioning Spencer Reid.

Reid's brown eyes were still following Dawson's retreating form.

"Agent Keller, earlier today—when you said that there were things you couldn't tell me about just yet—this is one of those things, isn't it?"

She gave a light sigh, "I'm afraid so. For now, I need you to tell me everything you can remember about anyone connected to Maeve's case. Anyone who could possibly know about your true connection, or could at least guess—anyone who might have seen you at her funeral, perhaps, or…visiting her grave."

The last bit was a guess, a sheer hazard, but Jess knew human nature well enough to consider it a safe bet. Given the painful prick in Spencer Reid's expression, it had been an accurate assumption.

"It's going to take a while," was all he said, swallowing hard.

"That's alright," her voice was gentle, lined with sympathy. "Trust me, I've got time."

* * *

For the afternoon briefing, Jeff Masterson was giving the details on evidence. However, he looked regretful, as if he knew that the words coming out of his mouth were not particularly welcome.

"We're still working on the notebooks—it's gonna take a while to get through everything—but so far, we've found that the ones left in the desk drawer have missing pages. We're assuming those pages have direct references to our killer, which is why they were removed."

"But why not just take the notebooks altogether?" Scott O'Donnell asked, casting a quick glance around the room to see if anyone else shared his incredulity on the matter. This time, Dawson and Eden were the only two Flying Js in the room—Shostakovich was still interviewing the last of Fuller's colleagues and Keller was keeping an eye on Dr. Reid. Callahan and Hotch were back, as was Cruz, who still looked like hell, although he'd at least lost his dazed expression from earlier. Of course, Rowena Lewis was there as well, somehow still quite distracting even though she remained completely silent, tucked away in the corner behind Agent Masterson.

"We're still working that out," Masterson informed him. With a slight gesture of his large hands, he added, "Besides, theory and supposition isn't in our job description. We just process the evidence."

Valid point, and it came across quite clearly—Lewis and Masterson would relay their findings, but they weren't going to interpret them.

Masterson continued, "So far, the notebooks that were hidden inside the books on the shelf don't have any missing pages, and we've found four direct references to an _Agent Reid_ , with multiple male pronouns throughout. There are also a few mentions of someone simply known as _the doctor_."

They weren't saying those were references to Reid, but they weren't suggesting it could be a reference to anyone else, either—a verbal tightrope walk that wasn't missed by anyone in the room.

Jeff pushed onward, "We've also learned that the desk drawer was locked, often, given the cleanliness and working order of the lock mechanism. However, the on-scene techs never recovered a key, and the drawer was unlocked when they arrived on scene, with no evidence of a forced opening."

He held out his hands in a gesture of finality ( _that's all we've got, make of it what you will_ ).

Of course, that was a bit of a lie. Jeff and Rowena had pulled Dawson aside as everyone was assembling for the briefing, quietly informing him of the latest development in regards to the mysterious _she_ that had popped up in Rowena's current journal. Dawson had been surprised, but he'd quickly recovered—and had just as quickly commanded the analysts not to disclose that information in the briefing. It wasn't an entirely unheard-of request, but at the same time, it wasn't exactly common, either.

However, true to form, Roe and Jeff had nodded and agreed, letting Dawson keep the others in the dark for whatever reason.

"Thank you, Agent Masterson, Agent Lewis," Dawson stepped forward, giving a curt nod towards each agent in turn. "We've had several new developments in the past few hours as well."

He took a moment to glance over at the two BAU agents, as if he wasn't entirely sure that he should be sharing this information with them present, however he seemed to decide against his better judgment and continue on anyways. "Last night, we recovered a piece of paper—a list of addresses to beauty salons and hardware stores, both of which were listed as potential sources of TATP materials. We sent the list to a handwriting analyst early this morning, and he confirms that it is Dr. Reid's handwriting."

Hotch's entire frame went rigid, and Kate automatically shifted to counter him—she was ready to grab him, to pull him back if need be. However, he remained silent, though the tightness in his jaw spoke volumes.

"We've also recovered Dr. Reid's cellphone. Our technical analyst had theorized that perhaps someone had installed a remote access program, which they could use to send the email to Linnea Charles from Reid's phone."

Hotch and Callahan exchanged looks of mild surprise—so the Flying Js had been on the same line of thought as the BAU, on that subject. Interesting.

Now Dawson looked directly at Hotch. "There was no such program on Dr. Reid's phone."

Hotch's pulse skyrocketed again. All the things that were supposed to prove Reid's innocence were falling apart. A flash of fear and confusion rippled through his brain like heat lightning.

For some reason, all he could think about was how desperately they needed Alex Blake at that moment.

* * *

 _ **Reagan National Airport. Washington, D.C.**_

"Don't worry, Hotch, I am on it," Blake assured him, her long legs doubling their pace as she pounded her way down the sidewalk just outside the baggage claim, her dark eyes scanning the pick-up lane for Derek Morgan's truck. When she'd deboarded her plane, there had been a message from Hotch, asking her to call him. He'd told her about the latest developments against Spencer, and she'd understood why she'd been the one that he'd contacted—he needed an expert in linguistics and handwriting analysis. "Do we have a copy of that list of addresses? Even a photocopy of the original would do."

"I don't yet, but Callahan's currently trying to convince O'Donnell and Dawson to let us have a copy, or at least to send it out for a second opinion."

"Smart move. Fingers crossed that she's got some strong powers of persuasion," Alex glanced up again, her face splitting into a grin when she saw the familiar truck up ahead. Apparently Morgan had spotted her as well—the driver's door opened, and he hopped out. "What are you gonna do if she can't get them to play nice?"

"Then we won't play nicely, either," was Hotch's response. Alex understood—they had Penelope Garcia on their side, she'd be able to get her hands on anything. Evidence analysis protocol dictated that multiple photographs—and sometimes photocopies—be taken of all evidence, and especially of any evidence that was being shipped out of the lab for processing. Anything could happen to a mere slip of paper, so you'd better have a backup copy, just in case. Those photos and copies were usually uploaded into a database—and if there was a database, then Penelope Garcia could waltz right in, as easy as you please.

Morgan was only a few feet away, though he slowed down when he saw that she was on the phone. She offered a quick smile, opening her free arm in a gesture of welcome, and he quickly found himself in her embrace.

"Morgan just picked me up," she informed Hotch. "I'll be at Penelope's soon—on the drive over, I'll call an old colleague. She's the best there is, Hotch—regardless of what the other handwriting expert said, she'll be able to prove it was a fake."

Hotch thanked her and wrapped up the call—Alex got the distinct feeling that he was going back to help Callahan convince the others to let them have a copy of the list.

"I knew you couldn't stay away from us for too long," Derek Morgan offered an easy smile, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, which seemed even thinner than he remembered.

"Oh, you know me—glutton for punishment if ever there was one," she returned with a wry arch of her brows. She held up her phone again. "I hate to be rude, but I need to make a few more calls—"

"Do what you need to do," he reassured her. "Trust me, I'm as anxious to get Reid out of this mess as much as you are."

She smiled slightly, going through her phone to find the right number. It had been so long since she'd actually dialed this number, she wondered if it still belonged to the original owner.

"Yes, hello?" That cool, clipped accent—she'd know it anywhere.

"Maura, it's Alex Blake."

"Dr. Blake." Maura sounded surprised. "My, it's been awhile."

"It has," Alex admitted. "Look, I'm working on a case right now, and I could really use your help—"

"I thought you were retired from the Bureau."

"Well, I was—I am. But I'm back, just consulting." A lie, a total and outright lie.

"Well, I'm retired, too. I'm sorry, but I don't think I can offer much assistance."

"Please, Maura, it's—"

"I haven't consulted on a Bureau case in thirteen years—and we both know how that ended." Maura's tone was sliced with curtness. "I'm sorry, Alex, I really am. But I refuse to help on any case involving the FBI. I can send you a list of people who would be happy to help, but I personally can't do this—it's…a matter of principle."

"Principle?"

"I'll compile a list of names and send it to you. Is your Bureau email still the same?"

"Um, oh, yeah—it is."

"Good. I'll have a list to you within the hour. Best of luck."

And with that, the call ended.

Alex stared down at the phone in her hand in disbelief.

"What's wrong?" Morgan asked.

She gave another huff of incredulity. "Honestly…I have no idea."

* * *

 _ **November 2002. FBI Field Office. New York City, New York.**_

"Maura, you don't have to do this."

Dr. Maura Morrow looked up, slightly shaken from her inner musings by the gentle voice of SSA Blake. Alex had been her unofficial partner throughout all of this—Dr. Morrow wasn't an FBI agent, she'd merely been brought in to consult on the Amerithrax letters, and her area of application was only in regards to the syntax and semantics of the letters, not the chemicals contained within. Blake's knowledge of linguistics had been invaluable, and the two had been tasked with determining the origin and the creator of the letters. There had been many dead-ends and false leads, and Maura had never been so thoroughly stumped by a simple piece of paper—and she was a woman who'd built her career on determining the authenticity of historical documents. This should have been a walk in the park compared to some of the work she'd done over the last decade.

But if it were a walk in the park, it was a walk through Central Park, late at night, during the 80s, when any number of strange and terrifying things could be seen.

And the most terrifying things were yet to come.

The case had been officially closed—with no suspect, no answer, no success. The original head of the investigation had suffered a heart attack three months prior (not that anyone was surprised, poor man—he was an easily excitable sort and this kind of case didn't really help his nerves or his stress levels), and Erin Strauss had been called in as a replacement.

That same replacement was currently throwing the team under the bus—at least in the public eye. In less than thirty minutes, there was going to be a press announcement, officially stating the case would be closed.

Officially telling the world that they'd failed. Miserably, often, and publicly.

However, there were still some people with a sense of honor—because here stood Alex Blake, gently telling Maura that she didn't have to come downstairs, didn't have to stand beside the team of agents who'd been her constant companions for the past ten months, didn't have to show her face or share their shame.

"No, I think I do," Maura countered softly. "I'm every bit as responsible for those leads as you—and I still stand by my work, just as fervently as you and the rest of the team do. We did good work, Agent Blake. I don't give a toss about what they say—we did good work."

Now Blake smiled, though it seemed to pain her. "Yeah, we did."

Damn the critics and naysayers to hell.

* * *

Her husband had told her not to watch the news, so of course, she had to. She wanted to know how the story had been spun—did the commentators, the pundits and talk show hosts agree with them? Did they realize that this team had done their hardest, given their best to this case, to this country? Would anyone acknowledge how difficult this case had been, how overwhelming it had been for the small team assigned to it?

It was strange, seeing herself on TV—her blonde hair looked practically white under the harsh flashes of the photographer's cameras, her skin sallow and drawn from too many nights of too little sleep, her suit and skirt which had once fitted her to a tee now looking loose and baggy (she'd lost almost fifteen pounds since joining this case). She looked like a remorseful ghost.

Then a reporter shouted at her (even though she couldn't hear the question on the TV, she could still hear it ringing in her ears, even now— _Dr. Morrow, where do you think you went wrong in your assessment of the letters?_ ).

The answer was still on the tip of her tongue—she'd kept herself from replying, but her glare had implied it well enough ( _we didn't go wrong—not now, not ever_ ).

In that instant, she watched herself whirl back towards the reporter, the light from another camera washing out her features until there was little more than the dark mauve gash of her mouth and the crystalline blue of her eyes.

For a brief moment, Maura Morrow didn't recognize her own image. Heavens, she didn't look like herself. She looked…ethereal.

Like an angel. Like a seraphim—a vengeful, burning angel.

* * *

" _The ones who think they've figured me out have the biggest misconception. There's always a piece of who I am that will be left to question."_

 _~Unknown._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who has left reviews, favorited or followed this story, etc.**_

 _ **Also, there are so many things on my heart, given the world-wide events of the past several days. But it all boils down to this: it's a mad, mad world out there, my darlings. Be safe. Be loving. Be unafraid. And please, please, please be kind. Always be kind.***_


	17. And the Plot Thickens

**And The Plot Thickens**

" _Le vrai est trop simple, il faut y arriver toujours par le compliqué.  
_ _(The truth is too simple: one must always get there by a complicated route.)"_ _  
_ _~George Sand_ _._

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Look, you don't have to physically put the list in our hands," Kate Callahan held out an empty palm for emphasis. "We're just asking for a second opinion—just forward the evidence to an analyst of our choice."

Dawson's face scrunched in slight disapproval. "And how will we know that this isn't just somebody who's willing to say whatever you want to hear? Then we've got two supposed experts in direct opposition."

"At which point, you can send it to a third," Callahan countered, though her tone and stance remained non-combative. Dawson might be resisting her suggestion, but she'd gotten a good read on him by now—she could tell his opposition was mainly for show, and nothing in his tone or body language implied that he was really planning to deny her request.

O'Donnell remained silent, his brown eyes focused intently on Dawson. He had the power to override Dawson's decision, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that. Agent Callahan made a compelling and logical argument—having a second, or even a third, opinion certainly wouldn't hurt. If nothing else, it would strengthen the evidence's veracity.

He had to think like a prosecutor now. Every piece of evidence needed to be vetted and re-vetted, to prove that it could stand up in court. The more confirmation they got, the less chance a defense attorney would have of getting a particular piece of evidence thrown out, or misconstrued in a doubtful light.

Yes, he still chafed at the idea of Dr. Reid being a terrorist, but he had to put personal feelings aside and look at the job as a whole. It wasn't easy, but he hadn't been appointed Special Agent in Charge just so he could make simple, easy decisions. It came with the territory.

Agent Hotchner re-entered the room, joining them with a brief glance around, as if silently gauging everyone's current moods. During the briefing, he'd asked if there was any other evidence against Dr. Reid, and although Dawson hadn't answered outright, there had been the distinct impression that there wasn't.

Dawson looked at Hotchner, his face as impassive as his tone, "Agent Callahan wants us to release the evidence into your custody."

"Only for a second opinion on the handwriting analysis," Callahan reiterated—for Dawson's benefit, not Hotch's. After all, Hotch was the one who'd instructed her to make the request, before he'd disappeared to make a phone call. "And we only need a copy."

"Copy's not as good as the original," Dawson reminded her. "So I'll give you the real deal. But you'll have to wait—our guy's not done with his analysis yet."

"He's not?" Callahan's eyes widened. "So there's still a chance that he could prove it's a forgery?"

"Jesus. You people never give up, do you?" Dawson's tone with tinged with a mixture of amusement and irritation.

"No, sir. It's not in our nature." With a smirk, Kate added, "Being bull-headed is actually a BAU requirement."

There was actually a flash of smile on Aaron Hotchner's lips, but he ducked his head slightly and the smile disappeared.

It was meant as a joke, but it held some truth—the only way you survived this job was by never giving up.

* * *

 _ **The Old Donovan House. Brookmont, Maryland. (7 miles north of D.C.)**_

"Good grief, Rossi, you don't give up, do ya?" Emily Prentiss rolled her eyes in mainly-feigned irritation. Honestly, she'd expected a total interrogation from her former colleague about the current status of her relationship with Aaron Hotchner. Rossi had been the one who'd finally pushed the two together, and she knew that he had an emotional investment in their mutual happiness.

It was sweet, but also hella annoying.

"I don't need nitty-gritty details," Rossi held up his hands in self-defense as he walked around the front of his car, joining Emily on the sidewalk. They'd just arrived at the address that Penelope Garcia had found for Lydmilla Donovan, Linnea's deceased grandmother. Linnea's husband had informed Karl (who'd told Jordan, who'd then told Rossi) that Linnea often went to her grandmother's old house to "get away" whenever she was working on a big project. It was a mad-ditch effort, but one worth following through.

"Good, because you aren't getting any," Emily dryly informed him.

"I just want to know how you two are going to handle the next few days—I mean, you're both here, you're both…available."

"Available?"

"You know what I mean, gattina. Beth's been long gone, and Hotch hasn't even looked at another woman since then—although I've always held the sneaking suspicion that's because he's only got eyes for a certain Interpol chief—"

"You really should stop writing nonfiction and go into tawdry romance series," she rolled her eyes again (a sure sign that she was flustered, Rossi noted—when feeling uneasy, Emily always amped up the sarcasm). "Look, we have an agreement of sorts, OK? We're not waiting around for each other. We're just…we're…whatever we are."

"And what about you? Have you been…not waiting?"

"Rossi, I love you, I really do. But I am _so_ not discussing my sex life with you. The very thought makes me throw up a little bit."

He laughed heartily at this, the way a father would at the gleeful realization that he's embarrassed his teenage daughter.

"So, this is the house," Emily nodded towards the house in question, more out of a desire to change the subject than an actual belief that Rossi didn't know which house they were looking for.

"No car in the driveway," Rossi noted as they strolled up the front walk.

"Could be in the garage," Emily motioned towards the back of the house.

"Could be out grabbing a late lunch." Rossi shrugged.

They reached the front door, and Emily stepped back, "You should handle this part, Mr. FBI Agent."

He leaned forward and rang the doorbell. After a second try, he resorted to knocking rather forcefully on the door.

No response.

Emily floated away, craning her neck to peek inside the windows. "House is dark. Doesn't really look like anyone's been here in a while."

"Maybe we should take a look inside, just to be sure," Rossi suggested innocently. Emily stopped and stared at him, fully understanding his meaning.

And now she also understood why Hotch had assigned her to this task—as an Interpol agent, she had a certain amount of immunity, particularly when it came to crimes of a petty nature, such as…breaking and entering.

"My, I think I hear sounds of distress," she cocked her head to the side, feigning concern. "They sound as if they're coming from inside."

"You know, I think I hear them, too," Rossi played along.

"We should probably rush to the rescue—but maybe from a back door," Emily moved around the edge of the house.

"Sounds like a solid plan, Chief Prentiss," Rossi was right behind her.

The back door was much easier to open (with the help of a screwdriver found in the garage). Rossi kept watch while Emily huffed and puffed and swore at the door knob, giving a small noise of triumph whenever she finally did meet with success.

"See? Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy," she was still slightly breathless, gesturing towards the now-open door with a flourish.

"You've really been around the Brits too long," Rossi informed her. She gave a light laugh in response.

"Is that another attempt to get me to move back home?"

"Not exactly. But maybe you should think about the fact that, of all the places you've lived in your life, this is the place you refer to as _home_." He entered the house with a studied nonchalance.

"Dammit, Rossi. You really don't give up, do you?"

"Not on you, gattina. Never on you."

She tried to remain irritated, but she couldn't stop the grin blooming across her face. That was David Rossi's saving grace—he always knew exactly when to be sweet and honest, when to step back over the line to safety.

They checked the kitchen—the fridge was empty, the countertops cleared but already sporting a light layer of dust.

"No one's been here for a while," Emily noted, making her way into the dining room. The area was clean, but with the distinct feeling of being unlived in. "There's no way that Linnea's been holed up in here for the past however-many hours."

"She was never here at all," Rossi agreed, looking around cautiously as he entered the living room. Still, they finished searching the house, each room only confirming their suspicions.

"So, what does this mean?" Emily set her hands on her hips. "Is Linnea lying to her husband about where she is? Or is she missing and someone's using her phone to pretend to be her?"

"Given the circumstances, I think we're gonna have to assume it's the second option." Rossi gave a heavy sigh. "Just when you think the day can't get any longer, gattina."

"I know," her voice was heavy with empathy. "Trust me, I know."

* * *

 _ **Evidence Lab, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

It was moments like these that always made Jeff Masterson want to laugh at those hyped-up crime dramas, the ones that portrayed evidence labs as places pulsing with action and constant discovery. They gave one the sense that evidence was analyzed in the blink of an eye, that test results were instantaneous, that any killer could be caught in forty-three minutes or less.

Granted, very few people would watch an episode of real life in the evidence lab—this episode being a perfect case-in-point. He and Roe were seated side-by-side once more, reading through those damned notebooks. Roe had made herself comfortable—slouched back in her hard plastic chair, knees tucked into her chest as both feet pushed against the edge of the heavy metal table, her chair balancing on its two back legs as she gently rocked back and forth. She looked like an accident waiting to happen, which honestly was a solid metaphor for her entire life. For some reason, this only made Jeff love her more.

As a child, Jeff's mother had affectionately called him Saint Jude. It wasn't until he was a teen that he'd truly understood why—Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes and impossible cases. He was always bringing home injured birds or stray dogs or sneaking out food for the neighborhood alley cats. He collected shattered mirror shards and eggshells from robins' nests—as his wife later put it, he understood the beauty of broken things.

It was little wonder that he'd become Rowena Lewis' friend so quickly. After years of surrounding himself with broken and injured creatures, he'd learned to spot one from a mile away. And despite her solid defense system, Rowena was definitely wounded. He saw it in her eyes, when she thought no one else was looking.

By that point in his life, he'd experienced enough disasters to know that he couldn't fix anyone. And instinctively, he'd known that Roe was strong enough to fix herself, if given the right amount of support and the right tools. The more he'd learned about her, the more he'd realized that she'd already done so much in terms of healing her own wounds, and he'd admired her all the more for surviving the hellacious childhood that she'd been given.

So he'd done the only thing that he could—he'd been her friend, he'd stuck by her side, quietly reminding her that not all people were bad, that not every person who liked her only wanted her body, that she had merit and worth simply by virtue of her self. In return, she'd reminded him that he was a good person as well, and she'd returned his friendship and loyalty with equal force.

Of course, when those feelings get tangled up, complications can arise. Jeff Masterson could honestly say that he loved Rowena Lewis, but he'd been careful to keep that love away from romantic intentions. First and most importantly, because he had a wife, whom he loved very much. Second, because if he did allow himself to devolve into such feelings, it would only prove to Rowena that she could only be seen in terms of attraction and desire—the very thing he'd tried so hard to prove false.

Someday, another man would see past the defenses, and see what he saw in her—not a beautiful catastrophe, not some tragic heroine, not some damsel to be rescued or some siren to be claimed, but a warrior, a woman who hadn't walked through fire but who'd become the fire, overlaid with humor and spark and wit. He wished it for her, almost more than he wished for anything else.

Currently, the benefactor of his well wishes was wearing a slightly amused smile as she read something in the journal.

"Listen to this," she commanded, stretching her legs out so that she tilted further back in her chair (jesus, she was dangerously close to toppling over backwards). " _The night is dark, but for the stars. And stars must explode and burn to be created_ —good grief, this guy was bat-shit."

"Wait," Jeff stood up, looking around suddenly. "Read that again."

"Swept away by the sheer prose of it all?"

"Just…read it again, Roe."

She noticed the strangeness in his tone, because she folded her knees in again, the front legs of her chair coming to rest on the floor for the first time in half an hour. Her sharp brows quirked into an expression of confusion, but she did as he asked. " _The night is dark but for the stars_."

Jeff was rummaging around on the table top, opening a notebook and leafing through it.

Rowena continued. " _And stars must explode and burn to be created. It is a fact of our Universe. There can be no light—_ "

" _Without the cleansing power of combustion and recreation_ ," Jeff finished, reading from the notebook in his hands.

Now Rowena was on her feet, craning her neck to inspect his journal, her hazel eyes darting back and forth between his notebook and her own.

"Holy shit, these are the exact same," she breathed.

"We need to go back and look at this from an entirely new angle," Jeff was practically sprinting across the room now, taking the remaining stacks of notebooks from their plastic container.

"What're you doing?" Roe was at his side in a flash.

"Count the number of journals we found hidden in the books." He directed, and she shifted further down the countertop, popping the lid off a plastic evidence bin and doing as he instructed. Silence reigned for several heart-pounding minutes.

"I have twenty-seven," she informed him. She nodded back towards the table, "That's including the one I've already read, and the one I'm currently reading."

"I only have eighteen." He looked down at the evidence bin containing the rest of the notebooks from Fuller's desk drawer.

"So it's not a one-to-one match," Roe pointed out.

"Maybe it was, originally," Jeff mused. "We thought the killer didn't take any of the journals—but what if he did? What if he took the ones that had way too much information?"

Roe took a full beat to merely stare at him. Then she stepped back, grabbing an evidence bin and moving it to their table. "We need to find all the ones that match up—and figure out what's in the ones that don't have a partner."

He nodded in agreement.

"But why have two copies?" Roe wondered aloud, setting the notebook that she'd been reading next to the one that Jeff had read from as well, lining up the pair. They didn't have much table space, so she shook her head and stacked them together, placing them at the edge of the table.

"First rule of data entry—always have a backup copy," Jeff reminded her, somewhat distracted as he sifted through the notebooks in his bin. "I'll read aloud from the first page of a notebook, and you search through yours to find the match. We'll pair 'em up and then see where that gets us."

"Aye, chief," she gave a curt nod of agreement.

"You know, Agent Lewis, I think we've just made what might be classified as a breakthrough."

"You know, Agent Masterson, I think you just might be right."

* * *

 _ **Madison, Wisconsin.**_

As they were leaving the restaurant, Emma easily linked arms with her mother, gently taunting, "You can't hide the truth forever, Mom. Eventually, you're gonna have to let us meet him."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, that is leaps and bounds beyond wherever we might be at this particular moment—at this point, it's not even a remote possibility," Mac held her hands up, attempting to stop her daughter's train of thought. "You and your aunt are getting way too ahead of yourselves—as I have stated countless times now, it's really not a big deal. It's not even a deal at all, really."

"So you said this man was working on the bombing case with you," Joanie had caught up to them—she'd hung back for a few moments, fidgeting with her vaporizer. She'd given up smoking five years ago in favor of vaping, but her nicotine addiction remained as strong as ever. She let out a long stream of smoke. "So he's an agent at Quantico, correct?"

Mac didn't answer, and Joan took that as an affirmation.

"You know, I know a guy who works at Quantico. I should hit him up, see if he can figure out who your mystery man is," Joan was on her phone now.

"Joan Elizabeth Macaraeg Beringer, don't you dare."

"Oh, you know I'm joking—and even if I wasn't, David Rossi wouldn't tell anyone."

Thank God above that Mac was wearing her sunglasses, because she was pretty sure that her eyes were the size of saucers.

"Who?"

"David Rossi. He's the guy I know who works at Quantico. He's a profiler. We met a couple of years ago—we were both on book tours, and this little place in Boston rounded up a bunch of us crime writers and put us together for a panel." Joan was oblivious to her sister's shock. "You'd like him a lot, actually. He's an absolute devil, but a real sweetheart underneath."

Mac tried to control her thrumming pulse. She needed to say something, but what could she say that wouldn't give it all away?

"He's kind of a big deal in the Bureau," she admitted cautiously. "I'm surprised you never mentioned meeting him."

Her elder sister waved away the thought, "Well, I didn't _know_ he was a big deal—and besides, I meet dozens of people, all the time. I don't tell you about every single one. Dave and I have crossed paths a few times, but there never was much to report."

Mac suddenly wanted to ask if Rossi had ever flirted with her—but doing so would be a dead-giveaway.

Thankfully, Joan shifted gears, lightly patting her sister's arm as she took another drag on her vaporizer. In the odd tone that can only be made by someone holding their breath while talking, she added, "Keep your secrets, Addie. So long as they're happy ones."

She finally released the vapor from her lungs, the smoke billowing and curling in the early afternoon chill.

"Aunt Joanie speaks solely for herself," Emma informed her. "I'm not going to give up so easily. Consider it payback for all your nosiness over the boys I date."

Mac laughed at the comparison—truly, she couldn't deny that she was a bit overprotective when it came to whom her daughter dated.

"Deal. But just know, right now, that you're not gonna find anything. I've been playing this game a lot longer than you have, girlie."

Emma grinned. "Challenge accepted."

Adelaide Macaraeg was grinning as well. But it didn't stop the tremor in her stomach at the thought that this was already becoming more tangled than she could have hoped. All of this, over a simple act of kindness, and a simple little kiss!

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Sura Roza nearly jumped out of her chair like a puppet on a string whenever Jack Dawson entered the room.

"Y'alright there?" He drawled in slight amusement.

"Sorry, I was just…I took one of those triple-shot espresso energy drink thingies and now I'm jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

He merely shook his head at the analogy. After all these years, he was used to Sura and her odd comparisons. He quickly returned to the purpose of his visit, "Last night, when we were talking about the remote access program—you mentioned that there would be signs…low battery life, that sort of thing."

Sura gave a small nod of agreement.

"You can track that kind of thing, can't you?" Dawson held out his hands in a gesture of uncertainty.

"Battery life, no. But," Sura's green eyes flicked to the ceiling, the wheels in her brain turning. "You _can_ track data usage. In fact, most carriers will show you a basic overview of your usage stats on every bill."

She suddenly understood his questioning, "Oh. Ohhh. I can get his cell phone's data usage stats and see if there was a spike in usage over the past few weeks—"

"Make it months. Something like this took planning—go back as far as two years, if you can."

"Two years?" Sura looked slightly incredulous.

Dawson gave a curt nod. "And if you don't have enough on your plate, I need you to look at Fuller's and Reid's financials for the past few months, side by side. Coworkers can't place them together, so maybe money will—look for anything that could place them in the same location. Credit card charges at the same coffee shop, the same restaurant, or maybe they both spent money at the same bookstore."

Sura puffed out her cheeks in an expression of uneasy disagreement. "You're not gonna find anything like that, my darling. I've already checked out Fuller's financials—they're clean."

"But you haven't compared them to Spencer Reid's, have you?"

She shook her head, "No, you're not understanding—I'm saying it won't matter. Benjamin Fuller had no credit cards, just a debit card that he used to withdraw cash from an ATM. All of his utilities were automatically drafted from his account, and his paycheck was on direct deposit. Aside from his auto-payments, everything else must have been paid for in cash."

Dawson frowned. "That's making an effort, in this day and age. Has he always been this way?"

Sura made a small hum of uncertainty as she clicked through several windows on her computer. After a few minutes, she found what she was looking for, squinting slightly as she went back through the information. "Ah, no. Seems like he used to use his debit card for other purchases."

"So when did he stop and go purely cash-only?"

"Um…2012. No, 2013."

Dawson swore under his breath.

"What is it?" Sura sat up straighter, her face lined with confusion and curiosity.

"John Curtis was still alive then."

* * *

 _ **Evidence Lab, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Rowena Lewis and Jeff Masterson stood side by side, hands on their hips as they looked down at their progress—they'd matched up the eighteen notebooks from Fuller's desk drawer with their copies which had been hidden in the bookshelf. Now came the task of deciding how to proceed.

"So, do we see what the nine without mates contain, or do we read the pairs in tandem to see what was taken out?" Roe asked, her eyes still focused on the rows of notebooks on the table before them.

"Which would be faster?" Jeff wondered aloud. Roe understood his reasoning—knock out the faster task first, allowing them to have at least one thing marked off the to-do list by the end of the day.

"Comparing the pairs, I think. We just have to skim until we get to a part where the desk copy is missing a page, and see what the bookshelf copy has to say."

Her partner gave a slow nod of agreement. "Let's do it."

She grabbed a pair of notebooks from the edge of the table, handing Jeff the copy from the desk drawer, in keeping with their original working model where he read notebooks from the desk and she read the ones from the bookshelf.

They settled back into their seats and began flipping from page to page. Roe read the first few lines aloud, and Jeff would confirm that he also had that page. It didn't take long for them to reach a point at which Jeff's notebook had a missing page.

"Let's see what deep and dark secrets are held here," Roe announced, her eyes skimming over the contents. "A mention of the doctor…and the mysterious she…that's it."

"Alright," Jeff jotted down a few notes on a legal pad. They'd decided to keep track of every mention of another person in the journals.

Several pages later, Jeff's journal had another missing page.

"More mentions of the unknown female," Roe informed him. "Plus one mention of Reid."

"Got it." Jeff scribbled it onto the legal pad before returning his attention to the notebook in his hand. "You know, I don't think I ever read a reference to anyone else in the journals I read—not _she_ , not the doctor, not Reid."

"If the killer removed the pages, and if Reid were the killer—why remove references to his female accomplice as well?" Roe looked up, her face filled with an odd mix of confusion and anticipation. She was on the edge of something, they both could feel it.

"You think that maybe whoever this _she_ is, she's the killer?" Jeff asked quietly.

"I think there's a fifty-fifty chance, at this point."

"Which begs the more important question: who is she?"

* * *

 _ **October 2012. Georgetown University. Washington, D.C.**_

Benjamin Fuller couldn't believe it. He was finally meeting her.

Dr. Maura Morrow. Forensic document analyst and renowned handwriting expert. Consultant on the Amerithrax letters. The burning angel from the press conference.

For the past ten years, she'd been little less than a recluse, no longer taking interviews or publishing books, keeping a low profile even in the academic community where she still held her footing as a respected researcher. However, she'd finally come out of her seclusion to publish her latest book, _Shadows in Ink_ , which covered her recent endeavors to verify the authenticity of a supposed lost play by Christopher Marlowe, as well as her work determining the authenticity of other Elizabethan documents granting land to several families throughout England.

Benjamin had always been fascinated by the art of handwriting analysis, but if he were honest, he'd have to admit that his main fascination was Dr. Morrow herself. Even now, a decade later, he couldn't explain how or why she'd captured his imagination, or why he'd followed her career ceaselessly since that fateful day that he saw her on the television. She just…spoke to him. Her anger and frustration in that single moment had mirrored his own feelings about the outcome of the Amerithrax case, and her beauty had only added to his desire to feel some kind of connection.

She looked like the kind of woman that only existed in myth—the Valkyries of old, Pallas Athena, Nike, any other fearless warrior. Her hair was even lighter than it was ten years ago, a platinum blonde with almost silvery notes, with seemed to only accent the slate hue of her wary eyes. Her nose was thin, petite in size yet hawkish in build, sitting above a rosebud mouth that seemed perpetually pursed in mild disapproval of the world around her.

She could have caught the person responsible for the Amerithrax letters, if only they'd given her more time, more leeway. He knew it, as deeply as he knew anything.

He also knew better than to say such a thing, when he finally got his chance to speak to her, after her lecture Georgetown University, which was on the subject of using modern techniques on old documents without damaging them.

So instead, he merely said, "Dr. Morrow, I'm a huge fan of your work—have been, for ages now."

She gave a polite smile, one as tight and quick as her handshake. He'd expected no less—from her cool eyes to her deep, flat, meticulously unaccented voice, Maura Morrow had always been a perfect picture of the ice queen. In the recorded interviews he'd seen, she'd always been aloof, distant without being outright rude, polite but never overly friendly.

"For ages, you say?" There was a flicker of amusement in her silver eyes. "How old were you when you became a fan—five?"

He gave a light grin at the question—he looked like a kid, he knew. He didn't point out that there were less than twelve years between his age and hers.

 _My, look at this boy_ , she thought. He was practically blushing, and all she'd done was lightly tease him about his youthful looks. She'd seen that look before—yes, he was definitely a fan, though his devotion was less to her line of work and more likely to the curve of her hips. It happened, sometimes. You were an intelligent woman with a modicum of good looks, you became the pin-up girl for the nerdy young boys who were interested in whichever field you represented. Harmless crushes, for the most part.

She tried not to indulge those crushes, but she gave a good-natured smile as she added a note of warmth to her tone, "Thank you for coming—I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Benjamin."

"Well, thank you, Benjamin. I hope you enjoy the book."

"I will—I mean, I did."

She offered another smile, and he knew it was time to move on. As he turned to go, he saw her face light up in recognition at the man standing in line behind him. However, he kept moving—he didn't want to hang around and look desperate.

This time, Maura didn't have to force herself to smile—the sight of her former colleague produced a genuine reaction of surprise and delight.

"Hello, Doc." He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he merely held it, clasping both hands over hers.

"Hello, John," she mimicked his gesture, placing her free hand on his knuckles. "It's been a while."

"It has," he admitted. "But you seem to be doing well."

"I am, I am," she nodded in agreement. "Now, tell me, Mr. Curtis, how are you?"

* * *

" _Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that's what."_ _  
_ _~Salman Rushdie._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: First, sorry for such a long absence—for me, holiday time is writing and illustrating books for all the children in my life, and that list happens to get a bit longer every year, so…if you want faster updates, try telling my friends and family to stop having children, I suppose.**_

 _ **Second, a huge thank you to everyone who's followed, favorited, and reviewed this story so far (and yes, I still haven't responded to the last round of reviews, so I'll be taking care of those very soon). Thanks for sticking with it for so long—as the new year dawns, I wish many happy returns for the days ahead. May your days be merry and bright, and may you always walk in love and light.**_

 _ **Third, an even bigger THANK YOU to everyone who took the time and made the effort to nominate my stories for the 2015 Profiler's Choice Awards. I only wrote 2 stories last year (which makes me realize how much I need to get back to the short-story game, man), but they've garnered 4 nominations between them, thanks to you guys. I'm also a nominee for Best Overall Author, and I can shamelessly admit that the sound I made upon reading that message probably scared every person in my apartment complex. I am overwhelmed with gratitude to even be considered. We writers put so much of our hearts and effort into these stories, it's nice to be reminded that they are appreciated and at times, even loved. Thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my coffee-filled, ink-stained heart. You guys rock out hard like nobody's business.***_


	18. Lightbulbs and Flickers of Doubt

**Lightbulbs and Flickers of Doubt**

" _I'm afraid, and I'm sick in my heart that you might look at her, then at me. And regret."  
~_ _J.D. Robb_ _._

* * *

 _ **February 2015. Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

Any fears Kate Callahan might have had about her predecessor pretty much evaporated the moment she met Dr. Alex Blake. The woman's smile and kind eyes spoke volumes—she making an effort to make Kate feel at-ease, and that simple courtesy didn't go unappreciated.

"Spencer has always spoken very highly of you," Alex informed her. "It's nice to finally meet you in person."

"You and Reid…talk?" Kate seemed slightly surprised.

"Occasionally," Alex gave a curt nod, her lips pressing into a moue that Kate would later learn was a common tell, whenever Dr. Blake was unsure of her speaking companion's mood or thoughts. "He used to guest lecture for me, before I joined the BAU."

"Oh, of course," Kate pretended as if she'd already known that.

Alex Blake offered one last smile before turning her attention to Hotch, "I called my old colleague—the one I told you could help with the handwriting analysis. Apparently she's unable to look at it herself, but she did send over a lists of possible replacements."

Hotch made a gesture of agreement, and Kate spoke up, "Dawson's agreed to let us have the original, but we'll have to wait—apparently the expert they chose is still working on it."

"I'm not surprised," Alex admitted. "If it's a good, solid forgery, it could take days—even weeks—to verify, depending on the analyst's workload and how many samples he or she has. And, of course, it just depends on the person analyzing it, what techniques they use, how fast their general pace is."

She was rambling slightly, but Aaron Hotchner didn't have the heart to stop her. Sometimes he forgot how much like Reid she could be—and right now, it was both endearing and reassuring.

"Prentiss and Rossi are on their way back from Linnea's grandmother's house," Derek Morgan spoke up. "No one was at the house, and Prentiss said it looked like no one had been there for quite a while. Either Linnea's hiding someplace else, or she's missing."

"Can we get a GPS location on her cellphone?" Hotch asked.

"Oh, my captain, my adorably hopeful captain," Garcia gave a slow shake of her head. "That would be the easy way, and you know that simply isn't how we do things around here."

He continued to give her a blank stare, so she added, "We've already tried—no bueno. Her phone's either dead or turned off."

"Find Linnea's husband," Hotch directed. "Callahan and Morgan, get ready to pay him a visit. We need to make sure that he's truly unaware of his wife's disappearance."

Derek Morgan gave a curt nod, though the tautness in his shoulders showed that he was excited at the prospect of finally getting to go out and do something constructive—not that he hadn't enjoyed the chance to catch up with Alex Blake on the ride back to Penelope's, but a man of action can only wait around for so long.

"We've got bigger issues," Hotch informed them. "The handwriting expert claims that the list is definitely in Reid's handwriting, and his cellphone didn't have a remote access program or any other kind of spyware installed on it."

He was looking at Penelope now, as if hoping she could concoct some kind of answer for the second issue.

"Well," she gave a slight wave of one hand—the other was busy hitting the send button, transferring a home and work address on Linnea Charles' husband to Morgan's phone. "If our evil villain could remotely install it, he most likely could uninstall it as well."

"So, what?" Alex quirked her head to the side, her dark brows furrowing as she considered the theory. "The UNSUB installs this program, sends the email, then uninstalls it, to cover his tracks?"

"Sounds like a John Curtis move," Morgan murmured, voicing the thought that was, or at least should have been, already on everyone else's mind.

"I mean, that's how I'd do it," Penelope shrugged. She quickly added, "If I were to do that sort of thing, which I wouldn't."

"So how would you prove that it had ever been there in the first place?" Kate asked, her expression filling with concern. It was a good theory, but until they had solid proof, it was just that—a theory. They needed cold, hard facts to get Reid out of custody.

Garcia gave a heavy sigh, and no one liked the sound of it.

"Lemme see what I can do," she offered, turning back to her computer. Hotch merely reached over to give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder—and that simple act of comfort and faith warmed her little fuzzy heart, right to the toes. Her Sir Hotch might be a man of few words, but heavens, he knew how to say enough without them.

"What about Reid?" Morgan crossed his arms over his chest. "When can we see him?"

"After the next briefing," Hotch frowned again. He didn't add that Dawson had said _maybe_ —because in his book, come hell or high water, they were going to see Spencer Reid.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

 _Put it together, put it together….find the pieces and put it together._ Spencer Reid was back to his pacing again. However, this time, Jessalyn Keller had moved her chair from the hallway into the tiny little office, patiently waiting for him to mentally stumble across another piece of information.

"I didn't write that list of addresses," he announced, turning curtly on his heel, one hand absentmindedly rubbing his chin. "I would have remembered writing it. And I didn't—not for any reason, in any context."

"OK, so it's a forgery," Jess held out her hands slightly. She qualified, "But a really good one—one solid enough to make even you think twice."

He glanced over at her, and she pointed out, "Last night, you told Dawson that it certainly looked like your handwriting. So technically, even you admitted that it was a good fake."

He gave a small nod of agreement. "But that level of detail, of commitment—you can't do a one-to-one match on handwriting like that without a lot of practice. Hours, weeks, months—"

"And who's to say that our UNSUB didn't have that much time?" Jess sat back slightly, arching her brow. "We don't know for sure how far back Fuller's journals date, yet—and it would make sense that he started keeping a record of this particular endeavor _after_ it had begun."

"That's highly obsessive."

"And?" Her tone implied that it certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

"And why me?" He stopped his pacing for a moment, holding his hands out helplessly. "I've spent hours, wracking my brain, trying to think of someone, _anyone_ , who could have possibly held some kind of grudge, no matter how slight, and I—I just can't."

Now his hands flopped to his sides, defeated and lifeless. In his two-day-old rumpled clothes and equally disheveled hair, he looked like the epitome of a lost boy.

"Maybe we should look at it from a different angle," Jess suggested, her tone soft and soothing, almost maternal.

Spencer's face filled with cautious curiosity, but he didn't speak. She continued, "If a man wants to kill his wife, he'll do it—whether he has to use poison, a knife, or a gun. The act itself is the point—but the _how_ of it can sometimes give you the _why_."

He remained silent, but she could tell that he was still following her.

"So this…person wants to kill you. Well, maybe not kill you, but—what, exactly?" Jess frowned slightly. "Frame you for an act of terrorism? Ruin your career and credibility?"

"Those two run hand in hand," Spencer pointed out. However, he corrected himself, "Unless of course the UNSUB knows that I'll be able to prove my innocence—but it wouldn't matter, after a certain point—"

"You could be proven innocent, but there could still be a stain on your reputation, a cloud of suspicion and mistrust," Jess agreed.

"Curtis believed that he hadn't botched up a single thing with the Replicator case, yet he still felt that his career had been ruined by his involvement in it," Spencer murmured, almost to himself.

"And Curtis is dead," Jess reminded him. "People need to stop getting hung up on ghosts. He may have been the inspiration, but if he hadn't come along, someone else would have, and they still would have found a way to inspire the individual responsible for this particular attack."

"You said the _how_ can sometimes give you the _why_ ," Spencer retorted easily, returning to his pacing. "This UNSUB chose Curtis for a reason—either he was connected to the man personally, or he sees himself in Curtis. A crusader of sorts, avenging the wrongs of a great agency upon its smaller, helpless agents."

"Vigilante," Jess corrected.

"A vigilante, but still a coward," Reid turned on his heel, pointing towards her. "Bombers are, as a rule, the most cowardly types of killers there is. They don't have to personally interact with their victims, like shooters do, and unless they're suicide bombers, they don't even have to be in the line of action when the bomb goes off. They're safe—safer than, say, a man killing with a gun or a knife."

"OK, yeah, Rossi already mentioned that in one of the earlier briefings, when y'all were laying down a profile," Jess leaned forward, nodding in agreement.

"But maybe the bombing was also the only _practical_ way," Reid was at the other end of the room now, whirling around again. "For this UNSUB, winning isn't just about framing me for the crime—it's about watching me suffer and squirm as I helplessly try to prove my innocence. You can't do that if you're dead."

"Yeah, but he could have used anthrax or poisonous gas or…something else," Jess held out her hands, as if motioning towards an invisible array of options.

"They wouldn't have been as effective—explosions are big, flashy, they grab people's attention. Besides, there's less to go wrong with a bomb. The anthrax might not reach many people, and gas might malfunction, and either way, there won't be a physical level of devastation that compares to blown-out walls and burning buildings."

"Valid point."

"And the cameras couldn't see it."

"What?"

"The news cameras. There were dozens of reporters and television crews here the first day of the bombing. The UNSUB had emailed Linnea Charles, to make sure that at least one reporter knew what was happening—or what was going to happen. A bomb is the only thing that would leave damage that's visible from the outside." Spencer's hands were moving volatilely now, trying to keep up with the spinning wheels of his mind. "Of course, the FBI couldn't hide that—they couldn't cover that up like they could an anthrax or gas attack. But it wasn't just that—the UNSUB could watch it on the news. He could see it, again and again, every news cycle for days to come."

"He attacked the Bureau and won, and everyone can see it, everyone knows it." Jess said slowly, nodding in agreement with her own words.

"That's where John Curtis failed. Sure, there were a few articles, but for the most part, the Bureau kept the details of his case out of the media. He didn't get to show the world that he was better than the rest of us—"

"Well, in the end, he proved that he wasn't," Jess pointed out. "He got caught."

"But he wouldn't have, if he hadn't gone after Strauss," Reid's brow furrowed. "Honestly, John Curtis probably could have continued to operate for months, possibly even years, before we would have caught him. He was too good, too meticulous. He got sloppy when he went after Erin Strauss—that's how we figured out his identity, by figuring out his connection to her and Alex Blake. He was always building up to killing Strauss, but he moved too soon. He was following us, following our movements, and when he saw that Strauss was in New York again, he lost his control. He couldn't stop himself—there she was, in the city where it all began. He didn't know when he'd get another chance like that—the symbolism of it was too compelling, he had to move, perhaps much sooner than he'd expected."

Suddenly, Spencer stopped. "I need to speak to my team. Now."

"You know I can't—"

"Please understand, I appreciate all your help so far, but if you can't get me in a room with my team, then I need you to leave and find someone who can. This could literally be a matter of life and death."

Jessalyn gave him a look of surprised concern, but she still rose to her feet and quietly left the room.

This time, he heard the door lock, before hearing the quick and steady rap of her boot heels down the tiled hallway.

His stomach began tying itself in tighter and tighter knots. He was pretty sure he had the answer—he just really, really wished that he was wrong.

* * *

Judith Eden knew that she'd missed some big developments in the case whenever she entered Sura's office and saw Jonas and Jack quietly talking on the couch.

"What's happened, then?" She asked, almost breathlessly—she wasn't sure that she wanted to hear the news, given how recent events had transpired.

"We have a third," Jonas gave a grand flourish with his hands. He seemed pleased.

"A third…conspirator?"

He nodded. Jack spoke up, "Lewis and Masterson have found references to a woman in Fuller's journals. And they've realized that the journals you found in the bookshelves are copies of the ones found in Fuller's desk, plus a few extras. Except they don't have any missing pages."

"So Fuller's killer didn't know about the ones hidden inside the books." Judith surmised.

Jack made a small noise of agreement. "They're going through the rest of the journals now, seeing what information was removed, and who was more likely to benefit from said removed information—Dr. Reid or this other woman."

The door swung open again, nearly ploughing over Judith Eden, who hadn't moved far enough away from it when she'd entered earlier.

"Watch yourself!" She cried out, skittering sideways.

Jessalyn Keller's disapproving face peered over the other side of the door. "Jesus, woman, you're the one standing in the doorway—it's like you _want_ to get hit."

Jack Dawson tamped down an amused smile at the pair's usual lack of warmth, but Jonas Shostakovich was studying them with a clinical sense of scrutiny, as if trying to find the line between reality and fiction. For years now, he could have sworn the mild animosity was genuine, but now, he knew that it was all a farce. Still, they played their parts so well, it was hard to tell the lie, even when you knew it was right in front of you.

"Dr. Reid is requesting to speak with his team again." Jess turned all of her focus to Dawson, ignoring Jude's dark look at her previous comment. "He's very adamant—and more importantly, I think he's made some kind of connection in this case that we haven't yet."

"So, what? You think he's gonna tell the BAU who the UNSUB really is?" Jonas shifted in his seat, turning more fully towards his teammate.

"Yeah, I think so," Jess gave a quick nod, her eyes wide and flashing with a hint of adrenaline.

"I don't know if that's a wise decision," Dawson stated.

"If he knows who the real co-conspirator is, do you think he'd really—"

"But what if he's wrong?" Dawson's words were quiet, but they held enough weight to stop Jessalyn's question. "Are you prepared to live with any possible consequences from such an idea?"

Jess looked down at the floor for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, she spoke again, "We'll pat 'em all down before they go in. Send 'em through a metal detector—something, anything."

"You don't need a weapon to kill—I can guarantee you that at least three of the people on that team know how to snap a man's neck with their bare hands," Jonas pointed out, though his tone implied that he was merely playing devil's advocate.

"They can't all be in on it," Jess retorted. "Besides, it would be stupid to make a move in a building filled with other federal agents."

"That's what Benjamin Fuller did, and he was relatively successful," Jude pointed out quietly. She added, "At least in the bombing aspect."

"We'll let him speak to Agent Hotchner," Dawson decided. "In an interview room, where we can be on the other side. If he does reveal the identity of Fuller's killer and co-conspirator, we'll be there to hear it."

Everyone nodded in agreement. Dawson shook his head slightly, looking down at his phone to call Aaron Hotchner.

He had the distinct feeling that he was going to regret this decision.

* * *

 _ **Outside Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

Alex Blake made a little flurry of noise as they stepped out into the chilly February air, her shoulders jumping with an involuntary shiver. She was walking out with Morgan and Callahan, though she wasn't going to interview Linnea Charles' husband—she was only following them as far as Morgan's truck, so she could retrieve her go-bag before he left.

"Really?" Derek Morgan was amused. "It's got to be way colder up in New England."

"It is. Doesn't mean I enjoy it." In an exaggerated Southern drawl, straight out of _Gone with the Wind_ , she added, "I'm a delicate flower—I was never meant for the cruel bite of winter."

He laughed at that (because obviously, he knew she wasn't nearly as fragile as she pretended to be—he'd witnessed her strength firsthand, many times). Even Callahan grinned—she hadn't ever seen Alex Blake in action, but within two minutes of meeting the former BAU member, she knew that woman was anything but delicate and retiring.

There was a slight commotion overhead, followed by a wolf whistle. The three looked up to see Penelope Garcia's grinning face hovering out of her window.

"Change of plan, my lovelies. Rossi and Emily are going to talk to Linnea's hubby."

"And what are we going to do?" Morgan tried to keep the frustration out of his tone.

Now Garcia's grin deepened. "You're going with Hotch to talk to Reid."

* * *

 _ **McMahon Law Firm. Washington, D.C.**_

"Who's doing the talking?" Emily Prentiss asked, her gaze fixed on the dial above the elevator doors, which ticked its way up to the appropriate floor. She and Rossi had been on their way back to Penelope's when Hotch had called and re-directed them to the law firm, where Linnea Charles' husband worked.

Beside her, Dave gave a slight shrug. That was his way of indicating that they would simply play it by ear, seeing which one struck up a better rapport with Mr. Charles. It wasn't about rank or who was actually the FBI agent or even a competition over being the "better" interviewer—it was simply up to chance, based on the man's personality and how it meshed with each of theirs.

Emily gave a soft smile at how easily they slipped into their old roles. Once they'd discovered the empty house and were sure of Linnea's disappearance, Rossi had stopped asking questions about her personal life or her feelings for Aaron—he'd directed his laser-like focus to finding Linnea Donovan Charles, and figuring out what her disappearance meant. He acted as if she'd never left the Bureau, as if they were simply working another case together, as if nothing had changed in the past three years. She loved him for it.

She loved him for many things, to be honest. Her own father had been a dim figure in her childhood, a quiet and weary man who'd been eclipsed by the bright and at-times fearful image of her mother, who had the innate ability to suck the air out of any room she entered. Eventually, Elizabeth Prentiss' husband tired of simply being known as just that, and went his own way. Emily was sure that he loved her, but she felt it was merely out of obligation and expectation—and he'd never done anything to prove otherwise. David Rossi had been her biological father's polar opposite. He'd pushed his way into her personal life, making her take down boundaries and defenses that she'd constructed decades before with an endearing and irritating sense of determination—and truthfully, she'd allowed him to take down those boundaries, because somehow, she'd always understood that the hands doing the demolition were tender ones, and their work was one of love and concern. She'd felt safe with him, for almost as long as she'd known him ( _almost_ , because in the beginning, he was a bit of a wildcard, and Emily Prentiss didn't like unpredictable things). He'd opened his own past, showing her there was nothing to fear in acknowledging who she once was, because people grew and changed—and the good things about their current selves were often owed to the darker times of their past ones.

 _You can be who you are because of what's happened to you, or in spite of it._ He'd told her that one day, when they were, as usual, pounding the pavement on a case. Granted, she'd heard similar sentiments from her therapist years before, but somehow, when David Rossi said it, the quiet conviction in his voice (and her first-hand knowledge of his personal past) had made it seem like the truest thing she'd ever heard.

She trusted him like a father—sure, she'd call him on his bullshit, even fight him over the most ridiculous things, but in the end, she was devoted to him—and she got the sense that he adored her as a daughter. If someone had told her, after they first met, that this would be how they ended up, she would have warred between laughing hysterically and being greatly concerned. But now, she couldn't imagine it any other way.

David Rossi must have read her mind, or at least been experiencing similar thoughts, because he looked over at her with a small, warm, almost-regretful smile as the elevator doors opened, his hand reaching out to lightly touch her arm, as if guiding her out into the hallway.

Despite the sprawling lay of offices, it wasn't hard to find Mason Charles, who was immediately concerned to see two law enforcement officers at his door.

"What's happened?" He was on his feet the instant they appeared, before his secretary could even fully introduce them.

"Mr. Charles, as of right now, we don't know that anything has happened," Emily kept her tone calm and low, casting a quick glance at the secretary, who quietly slipped away. Rossi closed the office door behind them, and Mason Charles' expression darkened in further anxiety.

"When is the last time you spoke to your wife—actually spoke to her, heard her voice?" David Rossi asked quietly, slipping his hands into his coat pockets with an air of nonchalance that seemed natural to most people, but Emily knew was his way of trying to appear calm when his gut feeling was screaming in opposition.

Mason thought for a moment before answering. "Last night—well, yesterday afternoon. She—she left a voicemail. I was in a deposition, so…I didn't take the call."

Emily read the expression on his face—were they about to tell him that was the last chance he had to speak to his wife?

"But—she's been texting me since then," he rummaged around on his desk, quickly finding his phone and holding it up, as if it were some kind of talisman against whatever evil they were bringing into his life. He couldn't stop himself from asking again, "What's happened? Why are you here?"

"Mr. Charles, I think it's best if we just take a moment to sit down," Emily adopted her soothing tone again. "As I said, right now, we don't know for sure that anything's wrong. We just need to get in touch with your wife, and we need your help—we need to ask you a few questions."

He immediately plopped back into his chair, as if he'd suddenly lost all strength, giving a slight motion to the two chairs positioned in front of his desk.

As she maneuvered around one chair to slip into the other, Prentiss shot Rossi a quiet look.

This wasn't going to be easy. Not by half.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

SAC Scott O'Donnell felt like someone had attached a live-wire to his fingertips, so jumbled with nerves was he—and he knew the vast majority of that effect was due to the odd energy being pulsed around the room by his colleagues.

Of course, it didn't help that there were eight people crammed into a room that was little more than a glorified broom closet—though what was happening in this room wasn't nearly as important as what was happening in the next.

Because in the next room, the interview room into which everyone stared with rapt and anxious attention, sat Spencer Reid and Aaron Hotchner. The younger man was facing the one-way mirror, though his gaze was locked onto his supervisor's face, as if he were desperately trying to forget the others watching his every move.

O'Donnell glanced around the room at the assembled opponents and proponents—next to him stood Mateo Cruz, who still looked like a man who'd been to hell and back, but was looking better than he did earlier. In front of him stood Callahan and Keller, both as close to the glass as they could possibly be, as if the extra few inches somehow would help them better comprehend the scene before them. At the edge of the window's frame leaned Morgan, his nonchalant posture at-odds with his tense jaw. Alex Blake kept close to him, arms folded over her chest and lips pressed together. O'Donnell honestly wasn't sure how she'd gotten in here, considering that she was no longer an agent, nor had she been called on to consult for this case. He chalked it up to Hotchner's persuasiveness and Cruz's already-battered defenses. However, from his limited dealings with the woman during her time as an agent at Quantico, he knew that there was little cause for concern. She wasn't a loose cannon, despite the dangerous fact that she was no longer under his purview and free from all career-based sanctions that the FBI could throw at her.

In the back corner of the room stood Shostakovich and Eden, their shoulders huddled together in a conspiratorial fashion. Aside from O'Donnell, they were the only two not focused on the interview room—instead, they were quietly studying the reactions of the people around them.

It had been stranger than usual, the Flying Js' reactions to the BAU's arrival this evening. Dawson had insisted that Hotchner not be allowed his sidearm while in the room with Reid, and the other Js kept wary eyes on the rest. O'Donnell wasn't sure why they were acting as if it was the showdown at the OK Corral, but he assumed they had their reasons—though the fact that he wasn't in on their reasoning was a bit worrisome.

The door to the interview room opened again, and Jack Dawson entered the room, gingerly taking his place in the corner and gesturing for Hotchner to begin.

However, it was Reid who spoke first. "Who else is here?"

"The team, plus the investigators," Hotch shifted slightly. "And Alex Blake."

"Blake?" Now Reid sat up, as if suddenly interested. He'd already complained about the fact that he hadn't been allowed to speak with Hotchner in private, and as a result had become tight-lipped and slightly withdrawn.

In response, Alex Blake shifted closer to the glass, as if she were going to call out, to reassure him that she was indeed there.

Hotch nodded. "We're bringing in anyone we can to help—and since she was a direct connection to both the Replicator and the Amerithrax cases, it seemed like the most logical choice."

He was speaking to Reid, but his eyes were locked on Dawson. Jack had to give Hotchner some credit—the man hadn't tried to hide the fact that they were still holding their own off-record investigation as well, and even now, he wasn't trying to hide their line of inquiry.

"Good. We're on the same train of thought, then," Spencer's face was pale, paler than it had been a minute ago. His left hand tapped three times on the table top. "I know yesterday we were looking into a connection between Curtis and this UNSUB—I think it's more than that. Much more."

His hand tapped the table again, three distinct times. Hotch's dark eyes flickered down to Reid's hand, but he didn't comment on it.

"Yes," Hotch spoke slowly, his gaze traveling back up to his colleague's face. "The similarities are growing—Curtis attempted to frame Morgan for Strauss' murder, using his own fingerprints, although it was quickly proven false. It stands to reason that our UNSUB would have felt compelled to do something similar, yet still show that he was smarter than Curtis. Better at forging evidence."

Now Reid's left index finger was rapidly tapping on the table top—loudly and in such an odd rhythm that Hotch was having trouble forming his own sentences.

Reid simply nodded in agreement, "He's trying to prove he's better than Curtis—and by addition, better than us, since we technically beat Curtis at his own game. He's trying to show us that not only can he take us down, he can walk away—he can survive and be free."

He almost made the comparison to George Foyet—the Reaper, who'd lain dormant for years, just to prove his superiority. But the BAU had found him, had beaten him at his own game—and ultimately, Aaron Hotchner had taken his life.

It wasn't a pleasant memory, but there was something comforting about it. The team always got their guy, in some way or another.

But there was always a price to be paid. They all knew that. And they knew the longer it took for them to catch their UNSUB, the steeper the price became.

His finger started tapping double-time.

Across the glass, Kate Callahan's brows knit downward into an expression of confusion and concern. Spencer Reid wasn't exactly the most normal or nonchalant person in the world, but he was acting positively odd right now—his entire body was rigid, unmoving except for his left index finger, which was tapping away at the table like a fish flopping out of water. Hotch had obviously noticed the newly-developed tic, but he'd kept silent, which made Kate think there must be something that she was missing. That was the only thing that kept her from mentioning it aloud—because she knew that the Flying Js didn't know Reid well enough to know that this was out-of-character behavior.

However, she spared a quick glance over at Derek Morgan, trying to keep her movements natural, to avoid arousing suspicion.

Derek merely returned her gaze with a tight-lipped look of his own ( _yeah, I know, something's up_ ).

That's when she noticed Alex Blake, who was standing next to Morgan. Blake's eyes never left Reid's hand—and her left index finger occasionally twittered against her leg, as if tapping in response. Her eyelids were slightly fluttering, and there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if she were almost mouthing a word aloud, but barely restraining herself from doing so.

The answer sizzled in her brain like wildfire, and suddenly, Kate wanted to laugh.

Holy shit. Of course. That's why Reid had been so alert at the mention of Blake's presence—because he knew that her skill set would include something that the other, less linguistically-inclined agents wouldn't have.

He was communicating to her in Morse code. He was going to tell them who he thought the UNSUB was.

* * *

 _ **Strauss House. Vienna, Virginia.**_

With one last deep breath, Jordan Strauss hit the send button on her phone. For a split second, she felt the impulse to end the call before the line even began to ring, but she fought it down. It was too late for that kind of consideration now.

The feeling of lost control spiraled through her veins yet again—ever since Linnea Charles had shown up at her grief recovery meeting, Jordan had felt like a woman in free fall. Every move had felt like her only option, and she'd never been one who liked being backed into a corner. Both Dave and Agent Hotchner had reprimanded her involvement, and she'd made paltry promises to keep out of things—and yet here she was again, sucked back into the thick of it all.

"Hello?" Carrington's voice was stuffy-sounding, as if she'd been crying or had a cold.

"It's me. Are you OK?" Jordan felt a wave of concern—Dora didn't sound well, and if she were in any kind of discomfort, it was certainly Jordan's fault at this point.

"I'll be fine."

"Your response implies that currently, you are not fine." Jordan had dealt with this odd form of double-talk with her own mother, back in the day. Erin had used evasive language to side-step talking about her alcoholism whenever it was in full swing, and later to avoid talking about her relationship with David Rossi or her work—work that eventually killed her, when it came down to it. And through her mother, Jordan had learned not to let half-answers slide.

"I'm not," Carrington admitted. "But I also don't want to talk about it, currently. What's up with you?"

Jordan felt a slight twinge of guilt at the fact that Carrington was well-aware that she was only calling because something had happened and she needed help. However, she took a deep breath and launched into her reason for calling. "Linnea Charles is missing. I've spent the afternoon talking to Karl Miramontz, her coworker—he called to tell me that she was missing, because apparently, she left behind my contact information as a means of reaching her. She told them that if anything happened, I'd know what to do."

"Jesus." Carrington breathed. "A lot of responsibility to place on you, especially coming from a relative stranger."

"We trust each other. Strangeness and relativity don't matter."

"And what can I do?" Carrington shifted gears, sounding slightly annoyed (although Jordan wasn't sure why).

"Karl wants to meet. In person."

"Jordan, you're neck-deep in some weird conspiracy theory around the bombing of a government building. I don't think now's the best time to start meeting strangers who might have ties to the case as well."

"Well, that's kind of what I thought too…so…I thought—I thought you could come with me."

"What?"

"Please."

"Jordan, this isn't a good idea—"

"Look, I know it may come into conflict with your job, but you're the only one I trust."

Carrington fought down the urge to add _besides Linnea_ , and to inform Jordan that she technically was no longer employed by the Bureau, but kept both comments to herself.

Jordan quietly added, "Carrington, you're already halfway down the rabbit hole, just like I am. Might as well keep falling, right?"

She was rewarded with a sigh. On the other end of the line, Carrington shifted slightly.

"Fine. I'll be at your place in twenty minutes. We can figure out how and when to meet Karl then."

"Thank you." Jordan felt a wave of relief. Despite how normal Karl had sounded on the phone, she'd learned firsthand that the scariest people were amazing at parading as normal and sane. Aside from Carrington, she knew she could truly, deeply trust her siblings, but her older-sister instincts warred against getting them involved.

"And—Jordan?"

"Yeah?"

"If we are falling down the rabbit hole, just keep in mind—we don't have a choice anymore. We just hit whatever's at the bottom."

The younger woman swallowed the lump of fear in her throat. "I know."

Somehow, saying it aloud seemed to make it even more real. And making it even more real seemed to make it even scarier.

* * *

" _Without fear there cannot be courage."_ _  
_ _~Christopher Paolini_ _._


	19. Break, Reset, Begin Anew

**Break, Reset, Begin Anew**

" _I am too weary to listen, too angry to hear."_ _  
_ _~Daniel Bell._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: I know. It's been a hot minute, as the saying goes. It's not that I haven't been writing—I just haven't been posting! I am sorry it's taken this long to finally get all my writing ducks in a row, but as a reward—FOUR new chapters! I don't have any good excuses for my absence, so to paraphrase the great Sam Seaborn,**_ _ **let's overlook the fact that I showed up late to the party and rejoice that I showed up at all.***_

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

With a frustrated sigh, Jessalyn Keller pushed open the door to the viewing room, quickly and quietly moving out into the hallway.

She felt like an idiot, a complete dupe. Dr. Reid had been so insistent on seeing his team, so convinced that he'd figured out some piece of the puzzle, and Jess had used his enthusiasm to fuel her own, badgering Dawson into allowing the BAU to visit, on the certainty that it would be a worthwhile risk—Reid would surely break open a new lead on the case, and they'd finally have a clearer picture of the person behind the crime and its subsequent frame.

But it had been nearly fifteen minutes since Aaron Hotchner had sat down in front of Reid, and so far, nothing had happened. Sure, Hotchner had confessed that the BAU was conducting their own investigation as well, but that wasn't much of a surprise. Honestly, if one of the Flying Js had been in trouble, the others would have done the same, rallying to prove their team member's innocence. It was part of the bond, the code created between agents who shared so much of their waking hours together, walking side-by-side through the valley of human darkness and witnessing things no human should ever see.

 _The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb._ When you went into battle with someone, you shared a bond of blood—blood spilled, blood spared, wounds both psychic and physical in need of healing. It would take a hell of a lot to break such a bond, and in the grand scheme of things, Spencer Reid's integrity being called into question wasn't anywhere close to severing it.

She'd made such a fuss over this, only for it to be proven as a waste of time and effort, on everyone's part. Reid and Hotchner were rehashing false leads and other avenues of theory, but the doctor's sense of urgency had vanished—it was as if he'd never told Jess that he knew who the UNSUB was at all. He certainly wasn't acting as if he knew, and if he did know, he wasn't sharing it with the rest of them, which seemed illogical and detrimental.

Jess had the distinct feeling that she'd just been taken for a ride—and it wasn't a sensation that she welcomed with open arms.

The door opened again, and Judith Eden's concerned face appeared, quietly closing the door behind her before gently asking, "Y'okay?"

Jess gave a helpless flop of her hands. "Aside from feeling like a total ass, yeah."

"Why? Because you were the one pushing to let Reid speak to his team?" Jude moved closer. "Hon, Jack was going to have to let them see him, sooner or later—"

"Yes, but if we'd waited til later, maybe we would've had something more concrete—and maybe it wouldn't feel like such a risk. A risk that wasn't worth it, in the end." Jess turned away, rubbing her forehead in frustration as she tried to push back her childish feelings of anger and disappointment. Now wasn't the time to have a meltdown, even if it was only in front of Jude.

"You and I both know that if Jack Dawson really felt that letting Dr. Reid see his fellow agents was such a big risk, he wouldn't have let it happen in the first place." Jude moved forward again, her hands resting on Jess' shoulders as she tried to pull her back into a comforting embrace. The younger woman shied away, glancing down the hallway.

"No one was around," Jude informed her. "I wouldn't have done it without checking first—you know that."

For some reason, that wasn't as reassuring as it was meant to be. Jessalyn's mouth slid into a thin line as she thought about how long they'd played these parts—the double-checking before so much as giving each other's hand a reassuring squeeze, the furtive looks and feigned coldness. In the beginning, it had been a necessity. For a while, it had even been a game. Now it felt like a prison. A prison they'd built themselves, but somewhere along the way, they'd lost the keys.

"What?" Judith asked, and the flatness of her tone indicated that she was gearing up for a fight.

"Nothing," Jessalyn gave a frustrated flutter of her hand, sliding further away.

"You are good at very many things, my love, but lying isn't one of them." Jude's tone was bordering on confrontational, but her mouth quirked into an amused smirk. It felt so patronizing that Jess wanted to scream.

"I don't know about that—I've been carrying on this lie with you for years now, and no one's noticed the truth." The words were out of Jessalyn's mouth before she could stop them, quick and flinty.

The Englishwoman blinked hard, shifting back slightly as if she'd been physically hit. Her voice was low and grave as she challenged, "And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

Judith Eden wasn't a coward, not by half—and she didn't wear fear well. Jess hated the frightened look in her eyes, and hated herself for putting it there.

But she took her self-loathing and channeled it into frustration, "Jesus, Jude, relax. I wish you weren't so goddamned afraid of us all the time."

"I'm not afraid of us. You know that's not it, not at all."

"Right." The word was laced with sarcasm. Jess pivoted on her heel and headed down the hallway.

"Where are you going?"

"I need some air—I can't breathe in here."

She didn't have to look back to tell the expression on Jude's face. She could feel her lover's hurt from a mile away.

* * *

Kate Callahan felt like a fully-wound spring as they trooped their way through the halls of the Academy once more. She tried not to outright stare at Alex Blake, who was quiet throughout the journey. Morgan was walking beside her, the tautness in his shoulders still so visible that he looked like he might need a chiropractor. His hand kept clenching and unclenching into helpless fists, as if he were grasping at imaginary straws and losing them again. He hadn't been happy with Spencer Reid's appearance, and he'd been quite vocal to the rest of the investigative team about his disapproval. Hotch had echoed his sentiments, but with a more dispassionate tone—however his dark expression had clearly translated the anger that was absent from his voice.

Kate waited as long as she could—they were out in the parking lot, standing in a small circle as they contemplated their next move. She turned to Blake and asked, point-blank, "What did Reid tell you?"

Blake blinked in surprise, but she didn't deny anything.

"Wait, what?" Morgan looked at the two women.

"The tapping on the table—it was Morse Code, wasn't it?" Callahan remained focused on the older woman.

Blake nodded. However, her gaze went to Hotch. "It was short—he kept repeating the same message, over and over. I guess he was afraid that I wouldn't pick up on it right away."

"What'd it say?" Morgan set his hand on his hips, physically preparing himself for whatever might come next.

His former team member looked heavenward, as if looking back into her memory as she quoted the message verbatim. "Curtis. Apprentice. Strauss too soon. Other plans."

A bolt of clarity shot through Hotch's brain. As they'd sat at the table, Reid's finger tapping away incessantly, the younger man had mentioned John Curtis again. He'd talked about how Curtis had been caught simply because he'd been too hasty—he'd gone after Erin Strauss in New York, because the set-up had been too appealing and he'd been unable to stop himself. But his impulsiveness had meant that he made mistakes, and he'd been caught because of them—because those actions had thrown everything into a faster spiral than he'd meticulously planned, and he didn't have the time to measure everything out as he'd wanted to.

Apparently, Morgan was remembering the same reference, because he said, "That's why he mentioned Curtis—I mean, I just thought he was being Reid and rambling because he was nervous, but—"

"He was trying to tell us the part of his theory that couldn't be compacted into Morse Code," Hotch finished. Noting Callahan's slightly confused expression, he explained, "We had at least one case where the Replicator used an accomplice—Donnie Bidwell, who copied the murders committed by Bryan Hughes, and whom we briefly considered as the Replicator."

"The name sounded familiar," Kate gave a quick nod in understanding. "What happened to him?"

"He committed suicide—most likely at Curtis' behest," Alex Blake's face slipped into a grave mask that did nothing to hide the contempt she felt for John Curtis, who'd preyed upon a vulnerable and hurting man so that he could have another tool in his twisted game.

"So Reid thinks that Curtis was already grooming another 'apprentice' at the time of his death," Kate surmised. She shook her head in slight confusion, "But Curtis has been dead for almost two years now—why wait so long?"

"The UNSUB probably didn't do anything for a while—he felt adrift without his mentor," Hotch's mouth formed into a thin line. "But at some point, the apprentice realized he could continue on without his master."

Morgan rocked back onto his heels, his voice low with dread, "And now he's had two whole years to study Curtis' approach and learn from his mistakes."

Blake cleared her throat gently. "The more important question is: who is this apprentice?"

* * *

 _ **October 2012. Washington, D.C.**_

"To you, Dr. Morrow," Curtis held up his drink in toast. Maura slightly rolled her eyes in self-deprecation, but she still raised her beer glass to his for the customary clink before taking a sip. After the lecture, John had convinced her to come out for a drink, for old times' sake, and she'd agreed—it wasn't as if she had anyone to rush home to, these days.

The conversation had progressed as it normally did—you-look-wells, followed by the weather and jokes about retiring to Florida, then a brief discussion on types of beer and taste preferences. They didn't discuss their current work and life situations, because it would bring up references to the past, and they never discussed the past.

However, this time, John went against the usual formula, casually mentioning, "Have you heard about Alex Blake?"

"No, I haven't," Maura set her drink down as a slight wave of concern washed over her. Had something happened, was she ill? She didn't keep in touch with Alex very regularly, but she always hoped that she was well.

"She got promoted." John gave a facsimile of a smile. "She's at Quantico now, working with one of the most prestigious units in the Bureau."

"Ah. Well, good for her." She could sense John's displeasure, but she wasn't sure of its source. Alex Blake had been one of them, one of the careers sacrificed on the altar of public perception by that bureaucrat with a badge, Erin Strauss.

"Don't you get it?" John practically hissed, and Maura was surprised at the vehemence that had suddenly filled her former colleague's frame. "She _betrayed_ us."

If he hadn't been quite so earnest, Maura would have laughed. And if it had been any other person besides John Curtis, she might have felt a glimmer of fear. Instead, she merely cocked her head to the side, "How so?"

"She's with the BAU—a unit directly under Erin Strauss' purview. By accepting the position, she's accepting that Strauss made the right move. She should have objected, on moral grounds."

Maura's face became an impassive mask as she studied him, "Are you saying that if _you_ had been offered such a position, that you would have actually refused it?"

"That's not the point."

 _Ah, my good sir, but I think it is._ She was smart enough not to voice this thought aloud. John Curtis wasn't a bad egg, but he could be prickly at times—particularly when his pride was concerned. Like all people of great intellect, he was a bit protective of his reputation and didn't take slights lightly.

Maura gave a nonchalant shrug, returning her attention to her beer. "It's been ten years. I'm afraid that battle's long been fought and lost."

"Are you saying that it still doesn't affect your life, on a daily basis?" He leaned forward, his voice low with knowing.

She shot him a single cutting glare that warned him not to tread any further into such dangerous territory.

He merely gave a pointed look at her turtleneck sweater. It was completely appropriate for the current weather, but he knew the truth—she wore it for the same reason that she wore scarves in the summer. His eyes moved upwards, and she knew that he was looking for the faint pock marks on the left side of her face—the tell-tale remnants of the shards that had been removed from her face, afterwards. She knew he wouldn't see them—over the years, she'd become quite adept at hiding them beneath layers of specialty cosmetics. Still, she couldn't stop from turning away slightly, shielding her scars from his view.

He sat back again, and the smugness in his expression showed that her reaction had been answer enough for him—and he knew that he was right. She pressed her lips into a thin line and silently wondered to herself why she'd agreed to come here. After all, Curtis had been a work colleague, nothing more.

"I didn't come to drag up old scars," he made a slight gesture of apology with his hands. His face contorted into an expression of contrition, but she knew it was false—a carefully chosen tool, just like his use of the word _scars_.

"Then why did you come?" It might have been a decade since they'd actually worked together, but Maura knew he hadn't changed that much—John Curtis was still a man of intent, one who never acted without good reason. Every move was like his beloved chess, weighted and considered. Even when the Amerithrax team had gone out for lunch or drinks, his attendance hadn't been as a man letting off steam with coworkers—he'd gone because he didn't want to miss any possible discussion of the case, or because he felt that nurturing a good working relationship with Strauss would help his future career plans. Maura had never mentioned his obvious calculation, but she'd always noticed it.

"Because I have to tell someone," he opened his hands again in an expansive gesture. "But it had to be someone I trusted—someone I knew would appreciate what I'm doing."

Maura sat up slightly, curiosity and dread warring with the alcohol in her stomach. "What are you on about, John?"

"You're right—that old battle was fought and lost." Now he smiled, a mirthless thing that shone with pride, "But the _war_ isn't over."

"You're not making sense." She was truly becoming concerned now. The way he was speaking, he sounded unwell—why hadn't she noticed this earlier?

He leaned forward, glancing around to make sure they wouldn't be overheard. "Just listen. It'll all make sense soon enough. I've finally found a way to make them pay—to make them pay for everything they did to us, after that case."

She wanted to pull away, but she found herself leaning forward instead. She wanted to tell him that he sounded positively frightening right now, but her tongue remained stuck to the roof of her mouth. Something was happening, she could feel it, and she needed to know exactly what it was before making her next move—the way a rabbit stops and listens for the sound of its approaching predator.

He continued, his words quick and heated, "They didn't believe us—Strauss didn't believe _in_ us, she threw us to the wolves, wrecked our lives without a second's hesitation. The higher-ups, they all thought we were wrong. They made us out to be incompetent fools."

"I know. I was there. My career suffered just as badly as yours," she reminded him flatly.

"In the world's eyes, we became unqualified idiots—after all our hard work and dedication," he continued without missing a beat, the venom seeping into his words with greater bite. However, his smugness returned as he smiled, "But I've decided to beat them at their own game. I'm going to prove to them how wrong they were—how wrong they've always been."

Maura's brain was whirling now (she suddenly realized that she shouldn't have had two beers on an empty stomach). She gave a slight shake of her head, "So, what? What does that mean?"

"If I can't be their greatest asset, then I'm going to be their greatest enemy."

It took a moment for the implications of those words to fully sink it. Her need to listen and wait suddenly disappeared, but the fear-induced caution ramped through her veins like white-water rapids. "John…are you…you're not…suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?"

His eyes narrowed, and she suddenly realized the danger that she was in.

She also realized that John Curtis could kill her, if he felt like it.

Right now, he was too busy being offended by her lack of fanfare. "I thought you'd be so much more supportive, Maura. After all that happened—after all they did to you. I know what they took from you—"

"You know _nothing_ ," she shot back, her words hot and sharp with anger and pain. "Don't patronize me by pretending as if you do."

She wanted to slap him, to send her glass shattering onto the floor, to storm out of the dark bar and never look back—but she did none of those things.

Because John had a point. And he knew it. The hardness in his eyes, the unwavering devotion to the truth of his words—he knew. They both knew.

Her head began to pound. She leaned forward, delicately cradling her forehead with her fingertips. Plaintively, she asked, "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because you deserved to know. If anyone deserves justice for those people and their actions, it's you—yes, more so than me."

There was the John Curtis of old—his words were gentle, kind, laced with concern. And more importantly, true.

She looked up, her icy eyes filled with light tears and heavy confusion.

He continued softly, "I'm not asking you to be a part of it, Maura. I just wanted you to know. When it's all said and done, I want you to be able to look at it all and know what really happened, and why—and know that in some small way, justice was done."

She knew that she didn't want to be a part of this, whatever it was. But the thought that John was doing this, finally taking some measure of justice, even if vigilante style—and more importantly, that he was taking the risk of telling her, just so in the end she could feel some measure of peace….well, it was touching, in a way.

She should have left the table five minutes ago. But she'd stayed, and now she knew that she was in too deep to turn back. She may not be actively involved, or ever get actively involved, but she was at least a passive participant at this point, whether she liked it or not.

So she bowed her head and stared at the last remnants in her beer glass as she quietly asked, "Just tell me one thing, John. How will it all end?"

* * *

He'd run a huge risk, revealing his master plan to Maura Morrow, but it hadn't been one made without careful consideration and calculation. John Curtis had analyzed every angle of his strategy, and he'd approached the matter of choosing his accomplices with the greatest of wariness. In truth, he would have preferred to work entirely alone, but a plan of this scale and magnitude made it impossible.

Naturally, his mind had turned to where it all began. The Amerithrax case. Every person on that team had been greatly shafted during the fallout, but none so much as their non-Bureau colleague. She'd come to his mind as the best and most viable choice.

Never underestimate the raw primitive power of the need for retribution. And in Maura's case, she operated from one of the deepest, most primal states to ever exist—a mother lashing out to protect her young.

Yes, he'd carefully weighed the chances of Maura ruining his plans or turning him in. He'd decided beforehand that if she'd proven false, if she'd given any signs of betraying him, he would have to kill her at the end of the evening.

It had been less than a month since he'd taken his first life. He'd learned that it wasn't so hard at all. He hadn't felt that stereotypical rush of power and control that murderers were supposed to feel, in all the books and movies, but then again, he hadn't done it for that—no, murder was simply a necessary act, the victims mere tools to use in the building of his grand master plan. It was no different than setting out stakes to pour concrete or laying bricks to build a wall. Necessary, tedious, uninspiring, but not without merit or reason. No need to attach such power and emotion to it.

Although, if he'd been forced to remove Maura, he probably would have felt something more—after all, he liked her. She was intelligent, fiercely so, and though John didn't really have friends, he considered her a useful and loyal ally. It would be a shame if she'd proven otherwise.

But the moment she'd leaned in and asked her final question, he'd known that she was still all those things.

 _How will it all end?_

A pragmatic response, indeed. She'd wanted to know that the reward was worth the risk.

 _The only way it can_ , he'd responded with unwavering certainty. _With them realizing they were wrong, and we were right._

She'd seemed neither pleased nor displeased by this statement. Instead, she'd simply ordered another beer and quietly waited for him to continue.

He'd told her that she didn't have to get involved, and she'd implied that she had no interest in doing so—but they were both lying, and deep down, they both knew it.

Of course, he wouldn't have to prove those lies quite so early in the game. He was just beginning, and though he hadn't entirely decided what part Maura would play in it, he knew that she was to be reserved for something big, something definitive. She wasn't a petty pawn, to be thrown off at the first chance.

But then again, a pawn in the right position can be more powerful and valuable than a queen.

He just had to find the right place to put her, and the right time to make her move.

* * *

" _O Lord, deliver me from the man of excellent intention and impure heart: for the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked."_

 _~T. S. Eliot._


	20. Traction

**Traction**

" _The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us_ _  
_ _from the support of a cause we believe to be just."_ _  
_ _~Abraham Lincoln._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: The final section of this chapter (Jack's "Jude, close the door" moment) picks up from a section in Chapter 6, after Jude has just finished interviewing Rossi…I think this section makes that clear enough, but just in case it doesn't, now you know.***_

* * *

 _ **February 2015. Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

By the time the rest of the team returned from Quantico, Rossi and Prentiss were already installed on Penelope's couch, waiting with the anxious blonde. Emily bolted to her feet the instant that she heard a knock on the door, rushing over to open it, with Penelope hobbling close behind. She was greeted by Aaron Hotchner's impassive face.

"How'd it go?" Aaron and Emily asked in unison.

He knew he had to answer first, because Emily and David wouldn't be able to focus on anything else until they knew that Reid was alright. "He's managing. He was able to communicate his theory to Blake about the UNSUB—and it's a pretty compelling one."

"This sounds both hopeful and very, very bad," Penelope admitted, sparing a worried look at Derek Morgan, who'd slipped in past Hotch. Once Blake and Callahan were inside, she shut the door, turning the lock as if it could keep out the troubles and dangers of the outside world.

When she turned back around, Derek was right there, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in a comforting hug.

Blake quickly explained Reid's message (Emily and David exchanged knowing smirks at the mention of how he relayed it— _wunderkind strikes again_ ) and Hotch finished by adding in their own theories of what it meant.

"So, how does that help us narrow down the suspect pool?" Emily asked, looking around in concern.

"Well, if this is one of Curtis' accomplices, then it has to follow the pattern," Rossi pointed out. "He used Donnie Bidwell to replicate Bryan Hughes. Hughes was a case that Blake worked on, but Bidwell was someone who'd been wronged by the Bureau years earlier—at least in his mind."

"I never worked on a case that involved bombing a federal building during my time with the BAU—I mean, I consulted on a series of mail bombs in Tempe, Arizona, but I only did over-the-phone consultations. We never went in the field," Blake replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Maybe the apprentice is writing his own script," Hotch spoke up. "Curtis might not have intended to blow up Quantico."

Emily Prentiss made a face that implied her lack of certainty on that point. "Still sounds right up his dark and twisted alley."

Kate Callahan, who still hadn't formally met the woman, decided that she liked Chief Prentiss.

"But the UNSUB could still be someone who was previously wronged by the Bureau—either in reality, or from his own perspective," Rossi brought them back to the more important point.

"That's the problem," Morgan pointed out. "You know how many people hold a grudge against law enforcement—real _or_ imagined? Our suspect list just expanded to every dude wearing a tin foil hat, every sovereign citizen, every person who's ever been considered a suspect in an investigation."

"Every person who's ever lost a loved one due to a Bureau case," Rossi added quietly. There was a heavy moment as everyone tallied up the people in that room alone who could fit such a description.

Hotch shifted gears, "Garcia, pull up every Bureau case involving bombings and attacks on federal buildings."

"How far back?" She was already hobbling over to her desk.

"As far as you can," he gave a slight toss of his hand. Her expression informed him that he was about to be in way over his head, but he ignored the silent rebuttal. Instead, he turned his attention back to Emily and Dave, "What about Linnea Charles?"

Emily shifted uneasily, "Her husband, Mason, had no idea. As far as Mason Charles knows, we simply want to question his wife about a source for an article she's written."

"You didn't mention her connection to this case and the implication of her disappearance?" The note of disapproval was clear in Aaron Hotchner's voice.

"He's received text messages from her," Emily pointed out. "A weak link at best, I know, but everything he told us about her makes her absence seem entirely ordinary—and we still don't have any _real_ proof that she's missing. There's nothing that really implies she's doing anything other than giving us the slip, which technically isn't illegal, since we're not trying to arrest her."

"And yes, Mason Charles gave us that spiel, once he got the sense that we were trying to track her down to get to one of her sources," David Rossi arched a disapproving brow.

"Did you tell him that she wasn't at her grandmother's house—the place where she'd told him that she would be?" Aaron asked, trying not to let his anger grow. The cavalier attitude taken so far by both Emily and Dave was shocking at worst and just plain irritating at best.

The two agents exchanged glances. David spoke again, "According to him, she has a rotating list of places that she holes up in to do work—but of course, Mr. Charles suddenly decided to be all patriotic and civilly disobedient by not giving us a list of those places—"

"He's going to contact us if and when he hears anything from her," Emily added. She glanced at her watch, "So far, it's only been a few hours since she last checked in. Not uncommon, according to him. Before we arrived, she'd just told him that she was about to go dark—a term she used for when she turned off her phone and disconnected the internet on her computer, so that all she could do was write. I mean, we don't know that she's missing, and she is responding to her husband using her usual vocabulary and syntax."

"The kidnapper—if there is one—could be imitating her text speech patterns," Alex Blake spoke up, her voice tinged with regret, as if she really didn't want to be a part of this almost-fight.

"Look, Mason Charles couldn't even file a missing persons report, even if he wanted to," Rossi sat up, holding out his hands in explanation. "Local PD won't do anything about it—she has been in communication with him, via text, and she's an adult with no known history of violence or self-harm."

Emily spared another glance at Rossi. "And we think that keeping silent might be the only way to keep her alive. As far as our kidnapper knows—if she really has been kidnapped and isn't hiding out somewhere else—we aren't aware that she's missing. If he sees her face plastered all over the news, he may panic."

She didn't have to elaborate what might happen if the kidnapper panicked. They'd all seen the end result too many times to need a reminder.

Hotch gave a curt nod of agreement—it was obvious that he wasn't pleased by the choice, but he also saw the logic behind it. Besides, he wasn't going to end his first day with Emily in over a year on a sour note by chastising her for her choices. He honestly couldn't say how he would've handled the interview with Mason Charles, or whether he wouldn't have come to the same conclusion as they had. Still, it felt like a bungle, and he didn't like the feeling.

"Okay," Penelope announced loudly, drawing attention to herself and trying to dispel the uneasiness in the air. "I've got a list for ya—and it's a doozy. I'll divvy it up between you and send them to your tablets. Well, Emily and Alex, I'll send 'em to your phones."

She tapped a few more buttons before pulling herself onto her crutches again. "And I'm going to make some tea. It's going to be a very long night, my lovelies."

Everyone shifted slightly, moving to grab their phone or tablet. Unsure of what to say or how to say it, Aaron made a slight gesture towards Emily, as if attempting to apologize for his recent harshness. She merely waved it away ( _it's OK, I can handle a little criticism_ ), moving towards the kitchen to help Penelope in her tea-making tasks.

She stopped when she came near to Kate, extending her hand, "Emily Prentiss. I'm assuming you're Agent Callahan."

"I am—and you can call me Kate." She shook the woman's hand—Emily's grip was firm without being too tight, well-practiced and assured. Definitely the handshake of a woman who could handle an Interpol branch office.

"Only if you call me Emily," she flashed a quick smile. However, it faded just as quickly, "I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, but here we are."

Kate gave a hum of agreement and understanding as Emily continued moving towards the kitchen. The Interpol chief gave a slight nod towards Blake, who was currently leaned against the bar. "Good catch on the Morse Code—I'm sure Reid was happy to know you were there."

"He'll be equally happy to know you're on the case as well," Blake returned easily.

"Poor man needs all the reinforcements he can get at this point," Emily admitted, shifting easily around Penelope's kitchen to help her friend assemble the cups and spoons and other tea-based accoutrements.

Alex swiveled, easily slipping onto one of the barstools as she leaned across the counter. The two former BAU members continued their conversation in quiet tones.

Kate watched the two women for a moment longer, and she wondered why she'd ever felt nervous about meeting them. They were here because they loved Reid— _adored_ him, even, it was evident in the way they spoke about him, in the way they'd dropped their own lives to come rescue his—not because they wanted to relive their glory days at the Bureau or somehow remind the others of just what they'd lost when Blake and Prentiss had left the team. They were part of the tribe, and they recognized Kate as one of their own—and like any member of such a small and soul-trying society, they understood the importance of welcoming anyone who was brave enough to join them.

She turned her attention back to the case files that Penelope had sent. Right now, her focus needed to be on finding whoever had threatened one of their tribe—and making sure that they were brought to justice for their actions.

* * *

 _ **We Will Wok You Restaurant. Washington, D.C.**_

A Chinese restaurant hardly seemed the place for a clandestine meeting, but Jordan supposed that her view was influenced by too many mobster movies—besides, when she thought about it, it was probably best to hide in plain sight. No one would expect three individuals to meet up and discuss a potential kidnapping linked to a terrorist attack on the federal government in an establishment with glowing red paper lanterns and a kids' menu that also featured chicken strips and french fries.

However, Karl Miramontz did look the stereotypical computer-genius-possible-hacker—tall, but with stooping shoulders, slightly overweight with a beard and hair that needed a trim three weeks ago.

"That's gotta be the guy," Carrington commented in a low tone, shifting closer to Jordan.

"Yep," Jordan agreed, silently wishing that the other woman would stop acting so nervous and so damned suspicious. She was grateful to have the support, but now that she'd seen Karl and realized that he was relatively harmless, she almost wished that she hadn't gotten Carrington involved at all.

 _Wish in one hand, spit in the other. See which one fills up faster._ Her mother used to say that, echoing her own father, of whom Jordan had only passing remembrances. They never spent much time with Erin's side of the family, and it wasn't until Jordan was fully grown that she realized it had been due to her grandmother's harsh nature and her mother's desire to stay out of its radius. It was funny, how growing up and learning certain truths like that tainted your childhood memories—Jordan's grandmother had died when she was twelve, and she'd always remembered her as a sweet and gentle woman.

She briefly wondered if Karl was about to ruin her view of Linnea Charles, too.

"Hey," she said as she slipped into a vinyl-covered chair, unsure of what else to say. "Karl, right?"

Karl gave a curt nod, his gaze darting between Jordan and Carrington. "And you're Jordan?"

"Yeah. And this is my friend, Dora," she motioned to the brunette, who'd taken the seat next to hers. "She may be able to help us."

Karl looked doubtful, but he continued anyways. "Look, Lin's definitely MIA. Her husband claims that she's texted him today, but I've been through every other area of communication—her email, her work login sheet, everything—and she hasn't left a trace. She hasn't used her credit cards since then, nothing."

"How exactly do you know all of this?" Carrington asked cautiously, as if she already regretted the answer.

"I have skills," was his only reply. He returned his attention to Jordan. "Now, tell me why Linnea would name _you_ as her emergency contact—what does she think you know? Did she leave some clue with you as to where she might…I dunno, hide?"

"I'm not sure," Jordan admitted. "Honestly, I'm not sure how I got this deep into it at all."

Carrington made a slight noise of disbelief ( _you know damn well how you got in this deep—you can't leave well enough alone, that's how_ ).

"What about your FBI contact?" Karl asked. "Were they able to find anything?"

Jordan gave a slight shake of her head, "That's beyond me, at this point. I called and told them that Linnea was possibly missing, and I haven't heard from them since. Besides, I'm not supposed to be involved anymore."

Another incredulous huff from Carrington on that point, which Jordan graciously chose to ignore.

Karl merely nodded in understanding. "OK. So…on my way over, I got a call from John Adams—that's the guy who apparently is the last person to see Linnea, the one who gave me your name and number in the first place. He tried to contact Linnea after I called him, and hasn't gotten a response, so he's getting worried, too. He said he's going to retrace her last steps as she left the building."

"And what, exactly, is he expecting to find?" Carrington spoke up, her dark brows furrowing in a mixture of confusion and concern.

"I dunno," Karl admitted. "But fingers crossed that it's something worth finding."

* * *

 _ **The District Times Editorial Suite. Washington, D.C.**_

In all the years that he'd worked for this paper, John Adams had never been to the security office. Granted, it was on a completely different floor of the behemoth building, but also he'd led a quiet enough existence to never need to know what was taking place in front of the many security cameras set up throughout the hallways and parking garages.

However, the security guard on duty was accommodating enough, going back to the previous afternoon to scan through various feeds looking for Linnea Charles. It took them a while to find her (Johnny suddenly realized that there were many women at the office that shared Linnea's willowy frame, and he couldn't quite remember what she'd been wearing the day before), but once they did, the journey became relatively easy—the guard knew which feed to switch to with an ease that implied years of experience.

"And the parking garage, it has cameras, too?" Johnny asked. He knew that would be Linnea's next stop, because the camera had shown her getting her parking validated at the front desk.

The security guard gave a small nod of confirmation. A few moments later, he pulled up another screen—the video was grainier, but Johnny saw the elevator doors open and Linnea Charles step out onto the ground level of the parking garage.

She headed to the right. The guard moved to another camera feed.

And that's when there was a problem. The screen was black.

"There's no way," the guard sat up slightly. "That screen is clear right now—I check all the cameras, as soon as I start my shift—it's protocol. It's working fine."

"But it wasn't working then," Johnny's voice was low. His stomach was beginning to tighten into a ball of fear. He didn't believe in coincidences. "Can you go to the next one?"

The guard obliged. Linnea Charles never appeared.

"She had to've been parked in the area covered by the other camera," the guard said, a bit unnecessarily. "We can go to the camera set up at the parking garage's exit—you'll be able to see her leaving."

"I don't remember what kind of car she drives," Johnny admitted.

His companion made a small noise of sympathy, "The garage cameras aren't the best. You might be able to make out her face inside a car, but most of the time, you've got the sun reflecting on the windshield, or the streetlights or the lights from the garage. It isn't easy to tell, sometimes."

"Well, won't know if we never try," Johnny sighed, not really feeling as if he'd have much luck.

And he didn't. They went through thirty minutes of footage, and only three cars left—and none of the blurry drivers resembled Linnea.

John Adams thanked the man and turned to go.

"I think you're gonna want to see this." The security guard's voice stopped him just before he closed the door.

He turned back around—the guard had returned to the feed from the blacked-out camera.

"Look at this," he instructed, rewinding and fast-forwarding to get to the right place. In this part of the feed, the camera still had an unobstructed view of the rows of cars and concrete pillars. Then, as if out of nowhere, a small piece of material appeared, slipping up from the left-hand corner to cover the entire lens.

"Someone blocked it on purpose," Johnny announced, an entirely unnecessary statement.

The guard nodded. "I dunno if this changes things—"

"It does. It very much does, I'm afraid."

And that was the God's honest truth. Johnny Adams was afraid. Very afraid.

* * *

 _ **FBI Evidence Lab, Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Adelaide Macaraeg gave slight nods of greeting to the Quantico analysts who'd been assigned to help the New York team, weaving her way through the stainless steel tables as she tried to keep her go-bag from bumping into anyone or anything—she'd come straight from the tarmac to the lab, not wanting to waste a single, valuable second.

She easily found the back room where Masterson and Lewis had sequestered themselves with the notebooks, giving a quick peremptory knock on the door as she opened it.

"Welcome back," Jeff Masterson glanced up, his face impassive with fatigue.

"Anything new?" Mac didn't bother with pleasantries or preambles. She set her bag to one side and slipped out of her overcoat, hanging it next to her colleagues'.

"Not yet," Lewis answered, returning her attention to the notebook in front of her.

Mac moved closer to the table, titling her head to better read the running tally that Jeff was keeping—the number of references to the doctor, Reid, and the mysterious she, as Masterson and Lewis had dubbed her, all contained within the pages missing from Jeff's set of journals, but still present in Rowena's.

The numbers were interesting. More references were made to the doctor and the mysterious she than to Reid, at this point—though it could simply be because Fuller referred to Reid as the doctor more often than using his real name. This could either prove Dr. Reid's innocence or damn him further, depending on what this woman said once they found her and questioned her.

Agent Lewis began reading aloud again, and Masterson made a small sound to imply that he had that page in his journal as well. They flipped the page and began again. Stop, go, stop, go, read, confirm, flip, repeat.

Mac was already fully up-to-speed on their methods—she'd had Jeff give her a full briefing on the plane ride back, so that she could be ready to hit the ground running as soon as she got back to Quantico. She assessed the stacks on the table, noting their progress as she turned her attention to the stack of notebooks that didn't have a match.

Either Fuller hadn't made a copy of those, or the killer had taken them because they'd contained too much information to simply remove page-by-page, like the others. Given Fuller's meticulous nature, odds favored the latter option.

She picked up a notebook from the top of the stack with a light sigh. As soon as she settled into a chair, she heard a light commotion from the main lab. Frowning slightly, she sat up and listened—Jack Dawson's voice was unmistakable.

She was on her feet and back in the main lab within seconds.

Dawson was speaking to one of the Quantico analysts, "I'm going to need all the evidence collected from John Curtis' house –that's the Replicator case in 2013."

"We don't keep that on-hand in the lab," the analyst informed him. "It's gonna be in the evidence locker—that's the building right next door. You'll need the access codes and someone with badge clearance—"

"That's alright, Mr. Wells, I'll handle it." Mac stepped forward, offering a small smile to the analyst. "If I can borrow your badge and access codes, I can help Agent Dawson while you continue your work."

Dawson seemed slightly surprised to see her. "Aren't you supposed to be out of state for something?"

"I was. Now I'm back." Mac gave a polite nod as the analyst handed over his name tag, "Thank you. I'll have this back to you as soon as possible."

Wells nodded curtly, relaying the access codes, which Mac repeated back. Then she retrieved her overcoat and a penlight—the power in the main building was still out, meaning that flashlights were needed for navigating hallways and staircases.

Jack Dawson waited until they were outside the lab before speaking again. "You don't trust Wells to find a few boxes in an evidence locker?"

"Honestly, I'm sure he could find it faster than I can—he's got the home field advantage, after all," Mac returned easily, opening the door to the stairwell. She raised her voice to be heard over the echoes of their footsteps, "But as head of the evidence team for the case, I should be involved in handling the actual evidence—"

"Can't say I disagree there," Dawson admitted.

"And it gives us a chance to talk," she added. She waited a few beats before continuing, focusing her gaze on the stairs, "Lewis and Masterson may not offer interpretations on evidence—they wouldn't, they're too good and too careful. But I'm older and I care far less about stepping on toes."

This didn't sound good, Jack decided.

"This has nothing to do with Dr. Reid," she informed him. "Well, the UNSUB has some kind of connection, but the bombing itself has nothing to do with him. Benjamin Fuller's obsession was with 9/11 and the Amerithrax case. Spencer Reid had zero involvement in either of those—he's never even made any kind of public commentary on those cases. And yes, I did check. There have been people who've posed theories and examined evidence retroactively, but Reid wasn't one of them."

"And what part of your evidence analysis led you on such a quest?" Dawson asked. To be honest, he'd already had Sura Roza look into any connections between Reid and the Amerithrax case, but he was still surprised that Mac, whose job was evidence recovery, would take on such a task.

"The newspapers we found at Fuller's house. It made me wonder if somehow Reid had gotten caught in the crossfires, by commenting on the cases later on," she replied easily. With a slight smile, she added, "Having all that extra time on the plane didn't hurt, either. It's not like I could do anything else besides search the web."

He gave a hum of amusement as he pushed the main door open—he liked her work ethic. They hurried through the cold night air, ducking their heads against the wind tunnel created between the two large buildings.

"So what are we looking for, exactly?" She asked, once they'd arrived at the evidence locker and successfully passed all the keypads and card-readers.

"I'm not entirely sure," Dawson admitted, slightly distracted in his attempts to find the light switch. The fluorescent bulbs twittered and whined before fully zapping on, flooding the rows of shelving units with a sickly green light. "Earlier tonight, Dr. Reid spoke to Agent Hotchner—they discussed the case, naturally, but he kept making references to John Curtis. Who, as you know, was involved in the Amerithrax case."

"And he tried to blow a bunch of Federal agents sky-high, too," Mac pointed out.

"Fuller was too young to be an agent at the time of the Amerithrax case," Dawson continued as they walked down the row of filing shelves, looking for the appropriate location. Mac was walking in the opposite direction, scanning the rest of the shelves, so he raised his voice. "But Curtis wasn't the only agent whose career got tainted by that case."

"So…what? You're thinking one of Curtis' former team members from the Amerithrax case saw what Curtis did and decided to take a little revenge of his own?" Mac stopped for a moment, then gave a sharp whistle, indicating that she'd found the right shelf.

"Yeah, maybe." Dawson made his way back to her—she disappeared into a row and he was oddly reminded of playing chase in corn mazes when he was a child. One step, and the person you were chasing disappeared.

By the time he reached the row, she was already pulling down file boxes.

"You don't sound too sure about that, Dawson," she commented, grunting slightly at the weight of a box as she slid it off the shelf.

"Can't be too sure about anything on this case," he returned easily, and she made a small noise of agreement. He took the box from her arms. "But whoever this was, he or she had insider information—the similarities are too close to be entirely coincidental. So even if it was someone from the Amerithrax case, they still would also need to have access to Curtis' operations as the Replicator."

"Why are there so few boxes?" Mac frowned, stepping back to scan the shelves again.

Dawson lifted the lid on the box in his arms, motioning towards the evidence bags filled with charred bits and pieces, "There wasn't much evidence left to collect, by the time the fire department made it out there and hosed everything down."

"Shit," she leaned forward, rifling through the slick plastic bags. "What's in here probably already has issues with mold and mildew—the fire department would've soaked most of this stuff, and I doubt much of it was properly dried out."

"You don't have much faith in the Quantico evidence collection team," he commented dryly, although at first-glance, her predictions appeared to be accurate.

"No, I've just been doing this long enough to know how it goes. The case was closed, they had their man. They probably had a dozen other active cases to analyze evidence for, and the time and effort required to restore everything to its best possible version seemed wasteful. Sometimes it isn't about what you can do—it's about allocating the time you have to the tasks that are more important."

"I understand the sentiment," Jack assured her. "But this is one of those moments when that mentality gets proven wrong."

She hummed in agreement, placing the lid back on the box. She jerked her chin towards the end of the aisle, "C'mon. They've got huge tables lined up, where we can spread all this out and see if there's anything worth taking a closer look at."

He had to admit, for a woman of such a slight frame, she lugged those huge, heavy boxes around like they were nothing.

Like everything else, Adelaide Macaraeg had a system. She assigned each box its own table, spreading out the evidence bags on each one so that they had a clear view of everything.

"Alright, so what are we looking for?"

"Notebooks, scraps of paper—anything like that."

"Ah of course," she gave a curt nod. "You picked the one thing least likely to hold up through fire and water damage."

"What can I say? I'm a man who likes a challenge," he held out his hands in a helpless gesture. His reward was a snort of amusement as Mac busied herself with the task. He chose another table, glancing at the various pieces of evidence with a critical eye.

"So. Why else do you think Reid isn't our guy?" He asked the question that had been on his mind ever since her declaration in the stairwell. The BAU protesting his innocence was to be expected. But Macaraeg was a relative stranger, with no ulterior motive towards proving Reid's lack of involvement.

"It's too easy," she informed him, her tone slightly distracted as she continued to focus on the evidence bags. "Too obvious. This case has been nothing but dead-ends and odd turns, and we were handed Reid on a silver platter. Even Agatha Christie wouldn't write it that way."

"You're right," he admitted. "It is too easy."

"Then why are you still holding Reid as a suspect?" She was more curious than challenging, and after all the flak and backlash from everyone one, he greatly appreciated her tone.

He appreciated it so much that he decided to be honest, "We're not holding him as a suspect."

"Of course you are," Mac stopped now, looking up at him in genuine confusion. "Why else—"

She stopped herself from fully asking the question. He saw the understanding flicker through her amber eyes. Then she quietly asked the right question, "What am I missing here, Dawson?"

* * *

 _ **24 Hours Earlier (The Night of Spencer Reid's Arrest). FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Jude, close the door," Jack Dawson kept his voice low. Scott O'Donnell had just left the room, and he wanted to keep things as quiet as possible.

Jude was too tired to even appear curious at his command, simply following it. Jack turned back to the one-way mirror with a heavy sigh, taking a moment to simply watch the back of David Rossi's head. Jude had just finished a rather unhelpful interview with the BAU agent, who hadn't been exactly thrilled about the fact that he and Reid had been treated like suspects, and even less cooperative once he realized that Dr. Reid was the center of suspicion.

The tidbits that had been floating around in his brain since the crime scene were still trying to fully piece themselves together, but he knew that regardless of where the fragments currently were, his team needed to know.

"It is very important that everyone understands this: you cannot discuss this afterwards, even amongst yourselves. What I say next must never leave this room." He could feel everyone shift a half-step towards him, instinctively forming the close-knit circle that their team had become over the years.

He turned back to them, "Spencer Reid isn't our guy."

Jess and Joe exchanged quick side-eyed glances. Jude merely nodded in agreement.

"You said his name was in the journals, multiple times," Jonas pointed out. "You said there was a note in his handwriting."

Jack slipped his hands in his pockets. "The journals mention an Agent Reid, yes. But what was one of the first corrections we received, when we called him that?"

"It's _Doctor_ Reid," Jess murmured. Her eyes were wide.

"That's a pretty thin wire to rest an entire case on," Jonas informed him.

"I'm not resting the entire case on just that. We're sending the handwriting to an analyst, and we won't stop digging into this case. But for now, I'd like to operate under the assumption that Dr. Reid has been framed, and we are responsible for proving his innocence."

"Then why exactly did we take him into custody?" Jess asked quietly.

"Because someone went to a lot of trouble to make us think Spencer Reid was the UNSUB. That someone is still out there—and as long as they are, he's in danger." Dawson took a moment to make full eye contact with each team member. He needed to make sure they understood the situation completely. "Whoever the real UNSUB is, he knows a lot about Dr. Reid and his past—things that only someone close to him should know."

"From the looks of it, the only people here that he associates with are his own team members," Jude pointed out.

Jack merely nodded.

"So…what?" Jess took a timid step forward. "Are you thinking one of the other BAU agents set him up?"

"I'm saying we can't rule out the possibility that someone on his team may be compromised. They'd have the easiest access to his phone to send the email, they'd know the most about his personal life, compared to other agents, and they've all interacted with him deeply enough to develop some kind of grudge."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Jude said, almost to herself. "We're falling into an utter rabbit hole."

She believed that Reid was innocent, she knew that much. But if it meant that someone else on his team wasn't, well…that was almost as difficult to comprehend as the idea that Reid himself could be the UNSUB.

"Listen," Dawson shifted again, keeping his voice low. "The moment we step outside this room, this conversation and what we know about it disappears. To everyone else, we believe Reid is our guy, and we are working to prove his guilt. We do not discuss the possibility of a framing, not even amongst ourselves—anyone could overhear, and we can't afford another misstep."

"Why not simply tell everyone that we have Reid in protective custody?" Jess cocked her head to one side, setting her hands on her hips.

"Because that isn't what our UNSUB wants," Jude answered before Jack could. "He has to think he's won, or else he'll spook and bolt. So we play his game."

Jack nodded, adding, "If we say that Reid is in protective custody, it becomes apparent that we're onto the real UNSUB. He may even make an attempt on Reid's life—if he's robbed of watching Reid's career and reputation go down in flames, he may settle for the next best thing, which is just ending his life completely."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Jack held up his hands in warning, "I'm not saying he's innocent, and I'm not saying that we won't fully pursue the possibility of his involvement. I'm just saying it seems too easy, and as of right now, the supposed evidence doesn't sit well with my gut."

"Agreed," Jude spoke with a little more force than necessary.

"Agreed," Jess and Joe echoed.

"So I guess it's time to ask the hard question," Joe gave a weary sigh, looking less than thrilled at the prospect. "If Reid isn't our UNSUB, and our UNSUB might be in the BAU—which one do we think it is?"

* * *

" _Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them."_ _  
~_ _Alice Sebold._


	21. Developments and Their Implications

**Developments and Their Implications**

" _I can believe things that are true and things that aren't true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they're true or not._ _"_

 _~Neil Gaiman._

* * *

 _ **24 Hours Later. FBI Evidence Locker. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Adelaide Macaraeg rubbed her forehead in a mixture of fatigue, frustration, and confusion. "Wait, so you're telling me that you don't think Reid's the bomber, but it's still possibly one of the BAU?"

Jack Dawson looked away for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He still wasn't sure that he should've let Mac in the loop, but it was too late to back out now. "Honestly, I don't think any of them are involved. But I don't have the luxury of anything less than absolute certainty, and I won't be responsible for sending that young man to his death by letting him walk around with a group of people that might contain the person who wanted to harm him the most."

"You have a helluva way of expressing concern," Mac informed him dryly.

"I'm not saying it was the best option—I'm just saying it was the only one I had at the time." Jack returned to the evidence before him. Everything looked like a lost cause—water-logged books and charred bits of paper and plastic. Half the stuff was completely unrecognizable. He continued, in a slightly distracted air, "However, as the investigation has progressed….there are certain aspects that don't look like a frame so much as simply damning evidence."

Mac gave a hum of understanding. She quietly pointed out, "But you don't want to believe it."

"If I'd needed a career where my own wants and opinions were given precedence, I would've become a prima donna."

His companion gave a wry snort. The image of dour-faced Dawson giving arias while bedecked in glistening jewels and opera gloves was certainly an amusing one.

"A few years ago, Benjamin Fuller went off the grid, in terms of finances," he easily switched gears. Mac's head was ducked as she sorted through a box of evidence, but he could tell that she was listening intently. "It's as if he knew what would happen. Like he was preparing, and making it difficult for us to tie him to anything, later on."

"Makes sense. A plan like this could take years to fully execute."

"Here's the most interesting part—John Curtis was still alive when Fuller started lining things up."

Now Mac stopped and fully turned to him. Her wolf eyes were wide.

Jack continued, "Curtis was adept at stalking the BAU—he was able to get Derek Morgan's finger prints, he knew Spencer Reid's routine in regards to his communication with Maeve, and his technological capabilities were amazing. He may be gone now, but his insider information and his skill set might have been passed on."

"That's a lot to entrust to someone else," Mac pointed out. "And what little I know of John Curtis' case, he seemed like the lone ranger type."

"There was at least one instance where he used a proxy," he informed her. "And it ended favorably for Curtis. He wouldn't have any reason not to use that method again."

"Don't mess with a winning formula," Mac cited the familiar refrain. Then she frowned, "Except Curtis has been cold and buried for two years now. The plan would've had to have been already in motion at the time of his death. So why wait so long?"

"Whoever his partner was—whoever the real UNSUB is—must've been unsure of whether or not they wanted to proceed." Dawson shrugged. "Or maybe they were less adept as Curtis was—they needed more time to get everything done, now that the true mastermind was out of the equation."

Mac glanced back at the evidence strewn across the tables. "Curtis was smart. And careful. He wouldn't have exactly sent a gilded invitation proclaiming 'you are cordially invited to attack the Federal Bureau of Investigation'. And he certainly wouldn't have kept a record of any contact or communication between him and his partner."

"He was also a narcissist with a god complex," Dawson reminded her, turning his attention back to the evidence as well. "He didn't expect to get caught—and he would've kept something to remind him of his success. A prize. A trophy. Some kind of visual reminder, perhaps something only he would understand."

"Which may or may not have been burned to a crisp," she intoned flatly, dropping an evidence bag back into the box as if to emphasize her point.

Dawson gave a frustrated sigh—one which informed her that he was well aware of such a possibility, and somewhat tired of having every move second-guessed.

Mac got the hint and quietly returned to sorting through items. After a pause, she spoke again, "Fuller was a pretty smart cookie, too. He kept those journals—and even had a backup set, which apparently his co-conspirator didn't know about. He doesn't seem the type to keep trophies, but he would keep _something_ , as a form of insurance."

"Lewis and Masterson haven't found the name of the woman in Fuller's journals yet," Dawson reminded her. "He doesn't want us to know who she is—or the doctor, for that matter. Which again, is another reason that I have my suspicions about Reid's supposed involvement—why keep the identities of the other two a secret, but blatantly refer to Reid by his name? It doesn't make sense."

"If I may be so blunt," Mac was implying as if she were asking permission, but Dawson had the distinct feeling that she was going to say what she wanted, whether he granted her permission or not. "I think we're wasting our time here. Our answer isn't going to be in Curtis' ashes—it's going to be in Fuller's collection."

He made a small noise of agreement, although he was reluctant to do so. And despite her protests of futility, Macaraeg continued sifting through the rows of evidence bags, giving each a quick, critical appraisal before returning it to the appropriate box.

"Whoa, whoa…." Mac stopped, straightening her spine as she held up an evidence bag. From somewhere within the depths of her overcoat, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves. Dawson considered asking her if she always carried them with her, but something told him that he already knew the answer.

She donned the gloves and opened the seal on the plastic bag. It was the charred remains of a book—hardback, with a dust jacket melted onto its surface. She held it closer to her face, squinting at something on the back of the book.

"This is gonna sound weird, but I think I recognize this woman."

She held the book up for Dawson, who by now was right beside her.

He understood why she knew it sounded weird—because you could only see about a third of the woman's face clearly. Half the photo was burned away, the remaining pieces were warped by heat and water. At one point, it was a standard photograph of the book's author, with a blurb of a biography, which had long been lost to the flame.

Mac continued, "Those newspapers from Fuller's house—the ones in the big stack, that Agent Eden wanted us to look at—I'm pretty sure I saw this woman's face in a photograph in one of those."

She gingerly turned the book in her gloved hands, inspecting the spine before opening the book. A few pages later, she found what she needed—in bold type, the name of the book's author. "Dr. Maura Morrow."

"That name sounds familiar," Dawson admitted, slipping his phone out of his back pocket.

"Yeah," Mac agreed. She returned the book to its plastic bag as Dawson punched in a few words on his phone.

"Dr. Maura Morrow," he read aloud from the search results that had appeared on his phone. "Renowned linguist, hand-writing analyst—"

"Shit."

"Who apparently also consulted on the Amerithrax case."

"Double shit."

Dawson's grim expression echoed her sentiment. "We'll take the book and pack up the rest."

They worked quickly, the possibility of this new development sending a fresh rush of energy to their veins. It wasn't until Mac had turned off the light and they'd shut the door to the evidence locker behind then that Jack Dawson quietly intoned, "And you thought this was a waste of time."

She merely rolled her eyes, giving a self-deprecating smile at his teasing. She easily changed the subject. "Now we need to see if there's any further connection between Curtis, Fuller, and Dr. Maura Morrow."

She stopped walking, her eyes wide with sudden clarity.

Dawson stopped as well, turning back to look at her.

" _Doctor_. Shit." She motioned towards the evidence lab, where Masterson and Lewis were still working on the journals. "We just assumed that Fuller's references to the doctor were about Reid. What if they're really about this woman?"

Jack's pace doubled, and Mac's legs easily caught up to him.

They breezed through the main lab, and Mac returned Wells' badge with a smile, keeping the half-burned book tucked safely under her arm. Then she led Jack back to the long metal table where the newspapers had been set aside.

A new set of latex gloves for each of them, and they began their task of sorting through the papers.

As Mac had pointed out earlier, the oldest papers were about the Twin Towers. Then their focus shifted to the Amerithrax case. However, the last ones weren't nearly as clear-cut.

"See?" Mac held up a page, which contained an article about Maura Morrow's latest book. "I thought Fuller kept these because there's a brief mention of Morrow's work on the Amerithrax case. I thought he was just saving anything that referred to the case, no matter how insignificant it seemed. But look."

She shifted to the next newspaper. Again, another article about Dr. Morrow, with only a passing mention of the Amerithrax case.

"Maybe his focus wasn't on the case at that point. Maybe it was on Morrow." Dawson realized. He looked at the picture accompanying the article, then glanced back at the book in its plastic bag, which Mac had set on the table as well—yes, it was definitely the same woman. Her features were so striking, it was easy to see why her face had stayed with Mac.

"C'mon." She turned on her heel, scooping up the book again and heading to the room where Jeff and Roe were still wading through the journals.

"What's up?" Jeff was instantly aware of the odd energy in Mac's frame. Rowena sat up, too, her hazel eyes darting from Mac to Jack and back again.

His boss dropped the book onto the table with a satisfying thud. "I think we may have just found our mysterious she—and our doctor, all rolled into one."

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

Aaron Hotchner rubbed his tired eyes, trying to make them work properly again. They were becoming blurry and unfocused on the tablet in front of him, and had recently become prone to drifting slightly upwards—across the coffee table, Emily Prentiss was leaning forward as she read through reports on her phone, and the cut of her shirt gave a lovely view. Distracting, but certainly lovely.

He tried not to remember a hotel room in Nairobi, where he'd explored that particular region of her body with his tongue and teeth. Tried, failed miserably, and really wasn't too upset with his failing.

She'd started picking at her nails again. Whether it was from previous stress or simply from the nature of this particular case, he wasn't sure. Probably a mix of the two.

Aside from the occasional scratching of Dave's pen as he jotted down notes in his ever-present notepad or the demure clink of tea mugs on a tables and countertops, silence reigned as everyone delved into the list of cases—Garcia, in her technical prowess, had created a large shared folder and they'd all devised a system of tackling the cases, reading through and deleting the ones that didn't fit from the folder. Everyone had developed their own systems for determining a case's merit, and there were more discarded cases than there were possible ones, but the running tab of potential cases was already looking ominous. Rossi, true to his nature, had complained about not having physical hard copies, but he'd taken up his tablet with relatively little fuss—a trust testament to how determined he was to set Reid free.

Hotch's cellphone buzzed, and he glanced at the caller ID.

Jessica. Most likely calling so that Jack could wish him a goodnight before she tucked him into bed. Also her subtle way of reminding Hotch that he needed to get home. Not that he blamed her—she was Jack's aunt, not his surrogate mother, and although she protested that she didn't mind keeping him, Aaron tried not to rely too heavily on her assistance, because she certainly hadn't signed up for this.

None of them had, really. No one had planned on Haley's murder, and there wasn't a clear set of instructions on how to rebuild after such a devastating tragedy—because the truth was, there was so much that couldn't be rebuilt, not between just the three of them.

He answered the phone and made his way into the hall outside of Penelope's apartment.

"Hey," he spoke softly, almost regretfully. He knew Jessica would never outright mention that he'd promised to be back before bedtime, but only because she knew that she didn't have to.

"Hey there, Dad," she sing-songed. "We're calling to say goodnight."

There was a slight shuffling as Jack took the phone. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Bud. I'm sorry I'm not back yet, but I'm leaving soon—I'll come in and kiss you goodnight as soon as I get home, but you'll probably be asleep."

"It's no big deal." When did his son become so nonchalant, so grown-up sounding?

"You're never not a big deal to me." Jack had used a simple, common phrase, but Aaron didn't miss the opportunity to reiterate the truth. He'd leave no room for doubt in his son's mind that he was loved—a gift his own father had never given.

"Goodnight, Dad. Love you," was his only response.

"I love you too, Jack. Sweet dreams."

Aaron returned to the apartment. It was relatively early, considering the usual types of hours they pulled on cases, especially one like this, but everyone looked completely beat.

"I'm going home," he announced. "It's been a long day, and unfortunately, Reid isn't going anywhere tonight—I suggest we all call it a night and start early tomorrow morning with fresh eyes."

"Where are you two bunking for the night?" Rossi turned to Blake and Prentiss. "I have plenty of spare rooms."

"I'm crashing here," Emily admitted, tilting her head towards Penelope.

"Yeah, and no way are you gonna steal my chance to snuggle up with my honey bun," the blonde informed him.

"Mmh, now _that_ is a lovely mental image," Derek Morgan sat back with a wicked grin. Emily's long legs easily reached out to give his foot a playful shove.

"I'll take you up on the offer," Blake turned back to Rossi. "I really hadn't even thought about where I'd be staying—my main concern was getting here as quickly as possible."

Rossi nodded in understanding. He scooped up his notepad and his tablet, tucking them under his arm—he might be going home, but he wasn't done for the night, not yet. Blake followed suit, and they exchanged a small smile of understanding. She sensed a strong drink and several more hours of pouring over cases and batting around possible theories in her near future, and she had to admit, it didn't sound like a bad deal.

Everyone packed up their things, made their goodbyes, and went their separate ways. In the end, it was just Penelope and Emily, curled up on the couch.

"I think it's time to exchange the tea for something a little stronger," Emily announced, easily maneuvering around Penelope's kitchen as if it hadn't been over a year since she'd last been in the apartment. "What's your poison for the night, my dear?"

"Nothing for me. I don't want to mix my pain meds with alcohol," Penelope admitted, re-positioning herself so that her injured ankle was now elevated on a couch pillow.

"Well, I don't want to drink alone," Emily informed her, moving back into the living room to help her friend. "It would feel like I was tempting you or something."

The blonde laughed, "I'm a big girl, Em. You can drink a beer in front of me, I'll survive."

"Nah." She plopped down in an armchair, her long legs easily dominating the space around her. "To be honest, I've spent way too many nights drowning my problems, recently."

"What problems?"

"Ah," Emily gave a curt shake of her head, as if willing the thought away. "Just stuff at work. It can feel…overwhelming. I mean, I love it—it just can be a lot to love, sometimes."

Her friend made a small noise of understanding. Then Emily changed the subject, her dark eyes studying Penelope's face with clinical concern as she gently asked, "How about you? How are you feeling?"

"I'll heal," Penelope forced a smile.

"I wasn't talking about the ankle."

"I wasn't either."

Emily took a moment to quietly observe her friend. Then she stated, "It's not easy, being hurt in the middle of something like that. It makes you feel…vulnerable. Even more fragile."

Of course, if anyone could write the book on being injured in the line of duty, Emily Prentiss was the prime candidate.

"That isn't what gets me," Penelope admitted, looking down at her hands. "I mean, yeah, I've been shot, I've done the whole white-light thing, but this was the first time that I really, really had to fight for my survival—at least consciously, ya know?"

Emily gave a hum of understanding.

"And I did it—I knew I could, but now, I really know that I can, and that's…great." Now Penelope's hands gave a helpless flop, "But…when I was up there, crawling around the floor, I…there was a man. He was—I think he'd been crushed by the bookcase. I tried to help him, but he was already—he was dead."

"That's not your fault," Emily softly reminded her.

"I know that." Penelope blinked back tears. "But that doesn't stop me from seeing his face, over and over again. And then…then I think about all the cries and screams I heard, right after the explosion and I think—I think, maybe…."

"Maybe what?" Emily prompted, leaning forward. Her tone lost its quiet softness. "Maybe you should have dragged your injured body into the middle of the blast site in some twisted and ill-fated attempt to rescue someone else, so you could be dragging _two_ bodies through the hallway—which you wouldn't be physically able to do, in your condition, at which point you would _both_ die?"

Penelope looked up at her friend, shocked by the bluntness of her words.

Now the brunette became gentle again, reaching out to give her friend's shoulder a reassuring rub. "Garcia, you were dying. Every second that you stayed up there, you were one second closer to your own death. You were brave and you were smart and you did what was necessary to survive. You can't think of it any other way. The alternatives would eat you alive, if you did. Trust me."

Penelope nodded, sniffling back more tears—the alternatives were already eating her alive.

"You survived. This man tried to kill you, and you didn't let him. And now, you're going to catch him. You're going to see him brought to justice—for you, for all those people you couldn't save. It won't bring them back, but it will make it easier to sleep at night. I promise you."

"And what if it doesn't?" Penelope was almost too afraid to ask the question—she wasn't sure that she wanted to hear the answer.

Emily offered a small smile. "It has to. You really don't have any other choice."

Once again, Penelope Garcia was reminded of how tough her friend was. Emily's determination was never far below the surface, but sometimes Penelope forgot just how strong her will could be— _mind over matter, thy name is Emily Prentiss._

"You're the best therapist I've ever had," the blonde admitted with one last sniffle.

Emily gave a dry laugh. "Given my experience with the headshrinkers, I wouldn't take that as much of a compliment."

She was on her feet again, finding a box of tissues to hand to her friend, who delicately tried to ebb the flow of mascara off her cheeks.

"Seriously, though, have you talked to anyone else about this?" Emily asked gently. Penelope shook her head. Emily ventured her next question, "So is that why you and Morgan are at odds?"

"What?"

"Aw, c'mon. He barely baby-girled you all day. The poor man was walking on eggshells and you were trying to avoid noticing him at all."

Penelope cringed at the observation, "No, it's not like that—we're just….we're trying a new phase in our friendship."

"A new phase?" Emily balked at the term.

"Speaking of new phases, let's talk about you and Hotch."

"Me and Hotch?" Oh, Emily Prentiss did a beautiful job of sounding utterly confused, but the redness around her ears was a sure sign that she was fully aware of the implication.

"Yeah. Let's talk about why whenever Morgan started grilling you about Hotch, you looked over at Rossi, who pretended to be defending himself—but why would he need to defend himself, unless he knew something that Morgan and I didn't?"

"This is preposterous." Emily was on her feet again, but she wasn't sure where to go. She was flustered, and Penelope saw it.

"How did you ever survive as an undercover agent, Emily? You are like the world's worst liar."

"I am not!"

"Oh my god, I can read you like book—a children's book, one with bright colors and easy words. No effort at all."

"Why does everyone assume that something is going on with me and Hotch?" Emily gave a frustrated growl. "We've never—the entire time we worked together, there wasn't so much as a sideways glance, from either of us. And yet everyone has it crammed in their heads that we are involved in some kind of-of-of… _clandestine_ fling. It's irritating as hell."

Despite her friend's obvious fury, Penelope was laughing. "No one thinks that! We just…we all think that the two of you would be very happy together, and so…we always hope."

"But why? Why would you think that?" Emily was truly confused.

"Because Hotch is a good guy. A _great_ guy. He's my white knight with a heart of gold, I adore him. And you're one of the sweetest, bravest, funniest, most wonderful people I know. There are pieces of you that would fit very well with pieces of him."

Damn Emily's mind for thinking: _Oh, hon, you have no idea just how well we fit…_

"And, I think," Penelope took a slightly uneasy breath, as if she wasn't sure that she should say it. "You've both been…through things that would help quieten the ghosts in each other's heads."

Emily blinked in surprise. It wasn't untrue—they'd both been through some dark times, both lived past the brink of death—but she'd never really thought about how that had given each of them a unique ability to empathize with the other.

However, she just gave a soft, warm smile and patted her friend's shoulder again, "You are such a sweet, hopeless romantic."

"I've got a secret for you, Emmy-lou," Penelope leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So are you. And more importantly, so is Hotch."

Emily merely shook her head, moving back to the kitchen, "Nice deflection there, Garcia. Completely avoided discussing your current _phase_ with Derek Morgan."

"Oh, that's right, walk away. Pretend like I'm not one thousand percent right about you and Aaron Hotchner—"

"Oooh, another swerve away from the real topic at hand. Jesus, you should've been a politician."

"And _you_ should be Emily Hotchner."

Now Emily lost it—she laughed so hard that she actually snorted. Penelope's high-pitched giggle joined in as well, and they grinned at each other from across the apartment.

"I love you," Emily admitted. "You are annoying and insufferable and _way_ over the line sometimes, but god, I love you."

"You needed the distraction," Penelope informed her. "Everyone's been so wound up, you all look as if you're going to shatter into a billion pieces at any second. Pestering you about your love life is a good way to reduce tension."

"I'm sure David Rossi would wholeheartedly agree with you," Emily sighed, retrieving a glass of water. "You want some more tea?"

"Nah, I'm good."

The tall brunette made her way back into the living room again.

"We are your family and we love you and we want you to be happy—this is how we show it." Penelope reached out to pat Emily's knee as she settled back into her chair. "That's how families work."

"You'd know about that much better than I would, so I guess I'll have to take your word for it."

Yes, Emily had spent the first years of life with a normal nuclear family, and yes, both of her parents were still alive, albeit separated, but unlike Penelope, she'd never really known the childhood definition of family, aside from the infrequent but adoring attentions of her grandfather. Penelope might have lost her parents at a relatively young age, but at least during that time, she'd truly felt as if they were her parents—she knew that she loved them, and they had loved her. The time between them had been short, but the gift of that shared time had lasted forever.

"Hey," Penelope spoke gently, waiting until Emily looked at her again. "You have us. We are your family."

Emily gave a wobbly smile.

A cellphone twittered, and they both looked around.

Emily found hers on the coffee table, beneath a pile of papers. "It was mine. Will texted to say that JJ's doing better. No more seizures, so they're thinking she might get moved out of ICU by tomorrow afternoon."

"Does that mean you'll get to see her?" Penelope knew that Will had refused to let Emily see his wife—he'd been afraid that Emily's arrival would bring up too many questions, and he didn't think that JJ was ready to deal with the stress of knowing what was going on with Spencer.

"Maybe. Hopefully." Emily set her phone down again. "Speaking of people I need to see, I think I'm gonna take a cab and go see how Declan's doing."

She did that every time she was in—a quick drive by Declan's current house, a quick and distant glance through the window to see how he was growing, if he'd learned to smile again, if he looked even more like his father as he grew older.

Penelope motioned to the key rack by her door. "Take my car. Goodness knows I won't be driving for a while, and poor Esther needs the exercise."

"You are the only person I know who refers to their car as if it's their pet dog," Emily drolly informed her.

"Just one of the many reasons you love me."

"You betta' believe it, dollface," Emily gave her best Humphrey Bogart impression, which was actually quite horrible. But it made Penelope laugh, and that was the point. However, the brunette quickly sobered, "You gonna be alright, on your own?"

She motioned to the splint on her friend's ankle.

"Oh, yeah. I'm a brave, strong girl, remember?"

"Being brave and strong doesn't mean that you never need help."

"Advice you should heed, Chief Prentiss."

Emily rolled her eyes and opened the door. "Whatever, Mom. I'll be back soon."

"Take your time," Penelope was wearing a feline smile, full of knowing. "Take all the time you need."

 _Shit_ , Emily thought as she locked the door and started down the hall. _She knows._

* * *

 _ **A Few Hours Earlier. The District Times Editorial Offices. Washington, D.C.**_

Johnny Adams watched the screen with a look of furrowed concentration. The security guard was slowly rewinding the feed from the camera that had been blocked during Linnea's exit—now they were in the section of footage from before the black-out had occurred, trying to see which car was Linnea's.

"Wait—I think that's her," Johnny stepped forward slightly, moving closer to the screen. The guard stopped the footage.

"Yep. Looks like it," he agreed. He rewound a few more seconds, and Linnea walked awkwardly backwards, to a light-colored Prius.

Of course Miss Save-the-World Charles drove a Prius (Mr. Adams conveniently forgot that he, too, sported around in one as well).

"OK, now let's fast-forward and see if the car's still there after the blackout," Johnny commanded.

The black-out lasted for a long time. Eventually, whatever was placed over the camera came loose, slowly slipping down the lens. Whenever a clear shot of the garage emerged, the Prius was gone.

The guard, still unsure as to what exactly was going on, had gotten wise enough to note the two different time stamps between Linnea's exit and the end of the camera's black-out. He switched to the feeds of the parking garage's two exits. "OK, so…looking for a light colored Prius…."

They each took a screen and studied it as the footage slowly moved forward.

Finally, the Prius appeared—the time stamp was almost two hours after she'd entered the parking garage.

"Could that be your girl?" The guard asked. The figure in the car was blurry, but it was pale and feminine.

"I don't think…I'm not sure," Johnny admitted. "But there's something—I don't think it's her. Her…hair. There's something off there, I think."

The figure's hair appeared to be dark, close to Linnea's shade, but the hairline….

The guard figured it out first, "That's a hat. Like a cap, a ski cap or something. The hair underneath could be any color."

"That's not Linnie's style at all," Johnny said, half to himself. In all the years that he'd known her, she'd always worn her hair down, in long waves—a detail he hadn't really noticed until now. It took less than a second to make his decision, "How long do you keep these?"

"Usually about 72 hours. Sometimes less."

"Don't tape over anything from yesterday yet. It may prove valuable."

"Is something going on that I should know about?" The guard had been curious, but it wasn't until now that he finally voiced his concern.

"Honestly, I'm not sure." Johnny glanced at his watch. "I have to go make some phone calls. I'll be in touch with you soon."

He headed back to his office. The first person he was going to call was Karl Miramontz—last he'd heard, the man had an FBI contact who was looking into Linnea's whereabouts. He just hoped they hadn't waited too long to realize that something was wrong.

* * *

 _ **The Strauss House. Vienna, Virginia.**_

Dora Carrington wasn't sure why she'd agreed to Jordan's invitation to come inside and have a cup of tea. The simple answer would've been that she was tired and needed a way to unwind after the stress of the day. The complicated and more truthful answer was that she was a flaming masochist.

There had only been a few times that Carrington had ever visited the house while Erin Strauss was alive—usually to drop off or pick up something work-related—and never had she been installed in the large living room with its overstuffed furniture and antique brick-a-brack, all overlooking a manicured backyard with overflowing flowerbeds and a small pool. From her few memories of the place, nothing had been changed since Erin's death. It felt strange, being in Erin's home and knowing that Erin physically wasn't here anymore, while every fiber of the house still retained her presence.

 _A willful haunting_ , that was what Jordan had created here—or had allowed to happen, since she didn't do anything to actually create the atmosphere, so much as she'd simply left everything as it had been.

From her spot on the couch, Carrington could see Jordan moving around the kitchen, making their cups of tea. Her cellphone rang, and she scooped it off the countertop to see who was calling.

"It's Karl," Jordan announced, slightly surprised. They'd just left him, less than an hour ago—the meeting itself had been pretty pointless, as neither had anything new to share, but at least they'd met in person and had gotten a better reading on each other.

"I doubt it's good news," Carrington commented. She'd been less than enthusiastic the entire meeting.

Jordan ignored her and answered anyways.

Karl didn't waste time, "So John Adams just called—apparently, he has security footage of Linnea leaving the building, but not driving her car out of the parking garage. He thinks someone else moved her car, later on."

"Well if they moved her car, where is she?" Jordan knew he didn't know, and the question felt like lead in her gut. She switched gears, "I've gotta let Agent Rossi know. Maybe he can look at the tapes and find something—"

"Do it, and do it quick. That whole car-swap thing happened over 24 hours ago by now."

"I'm on it." Jordan hung up.

"What's happened?" Carrington asked. Now her tone was laced with concern.

Jordan relayed the news as she moved back into the living room, gingerly carrying the two mugs of tea and setting them on the worn wooden coffee table.

However, Carrington shook her head at the idea of calling Rossi. "You shouldn't be getting them involved. You should tell the people actually running the investigation. The entire BAU is already in enough trouble as it is—"

"I can't just call up Jack Dawson and tell him all this shit—he'll wonder why I waited so long to contact him, why I'm so involved—"

"Then let him wonder, Jordan. It doesn't matter what the man thinks—so long as he gets his team looking for Linnea. This isn't about you—it's about her."

The reproach in Carrington's tone was unmistakable.

"I know it's not about me—I'm not _trying_ to make it about me," Jordan countered. Her voice was soft, but the look in her eyes was hard. She still hadn't taken a seat, instead opting to keep the coffee table between them like a battlement. "But I have to consider the fact that Dawson might not be as concerned as I am, or as Rossi is. We don't have time to convince him."

Carrington gave a frustrated sigh, turning away, "You just keep digging yourself in deeper."

"And is that such a bad thing?" Jordan demanded.

"Yes, it is," Carrington returned forcefully, her blue eyes snapping onto Jordan's green ones with angry intensity. "Because every step you take, you drag another person further down with you. This isn't a _game_ , Jordan—people's lives are at risk, people's careers could be ruined by the things you're asking them to do—"

"I'm not asking anyone to put their life or their career on the line," Jordan looked completely bewildered at the thought.

"That's just it." The fight suddenly left Carrington's veins, just as quickly as it'd come, leaving her feeling tired and wobbly-boned. Jordan really had no idea, and the realization of her blissful ignorance was heartbreaking. "You don't have to ask. People just…do it. For you. Because…because you're you."

"That doesn't even make sense," Jordan spat. Carrington might have lost the will to fight, but she certainly hadn't. "You can't lay the blame for everyone else's actions at my feet. We all have a choice—"

"Not when it comes to you," Carrington said quickly. "You play the repentant child or the damsel in distress, you bat those big green eyes and anyone who's mad at you instantly regrets it, and anyone who loves you would do anything to make you happy again—"

"I'm not a fucking siren, Carrington—"

"No, because a siren knows what it is, and you can't even see who you really are and what you really do to people." The brunette was on her feet now, moving to gather her things. "I shouldn't have agreed to help you. I shouldn't have gotten involved—"

"Then why did you?" Jordan didn't move, but her voice easily followed Carrington into the hallway.

Carrington stopped and turned around. Her tired and longsuffering expression chided: _You stupid, stupid girl_.

She flatly added, "I've told you a dozen times. You just never listened."

With that, she left. Left the house, left whatever web she'd stepped into, left whatever feelings she'd harbored for the women who'd inhabited that house, left behind her last link to the things that had tethered her to this place in this life.

She couldn't say that it felt liberating, but it didn't hurt as much as she'd expected it to—and that was a victory in itself, she supposed.

* * *

" _Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe."_ _  
_ _~Anne Bronte._ _  
_


	22. Who We Have Become

**Who We Have Become**

" _The first time ever I saw your face,_ _  
_ _I thought the sun rose in your eyes._ _  
_ _And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave_ _  
_ _To the dark and the endless skies."_

 _~Ewan MacColl._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: This first section is literally copied from Pay the Piper (Ch 47, for those of you just dying to know), although it's been tweaked a little. But rest assured, the rest is brand spankin' new.**_

 _ **As always, a deep thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed this story so far.***_

* * *

 **March 2012. Quantico, Virginia.**

Jordan Elaine Strauss stood at the threshold of her mother's office, wishing for all that she was worth that the earth would simply open up and swallow her whole.

She had to do this. She was the eldest, this was her responsibility. She was the one who had finally pushed her mother to seek treatment (the first time), the one whom her mother had called on her way to detox (the second time), and now she was the one who helped her mother adjust to life in the sober lane.

Mom was coming home next week, after fourteen weeks in a treatment facility. It was easy to stay sober in a room with four stark white walls, where no one let you have any freedom or control, when you were forced to stay sober because of your location.

By now, Jordan knew enough about alcoholics in general (and her own mother in particular) to know that her mother kept stashes of alcohol everywhere. Which was why she was here, at Quantico, in her mother's office—to clear away any temptation that might be left behind.

She hated the sneakiness of it, the distrustfulness behind the action, the understanding that she was entering a place that did not belong to her, a place that she was not invited. But it was an act of love, and she would perform this duty if it killed her.

"Are you—do you need some help or something?" Her mother's assistant, Carrington, was hovering over her shoulder, hands clasping and unclasping nervously. This was the first time they'd ever met, although they'd spoken on the phone several times as Jordan was trying to arrange access into the building (Carrington had offered to clear out the office for her, but Jordan didn't want anyone else seeing, didn't want anyone else knowing her mother's dark secrets, because she had an overwhelming need to protect her mother, because that was Jordan's life philosophy—family first, at the expense of everything else).

"No. No, I think I'll be fine," Jordan snapped out of her stupor and took a deep breath as she finally entered the room.

It was calm, well organized, logical and tasteful and so like her mother, with nice colors and good, solid furniture. The sense of Erin that filled this room was so strong that her daughter felt a sudden tightness in her chest, a longing for simpler times, a longing for her mother to be what she used to be—strong and sheltering and in-control and loving and _present_ and here, with Jordan, with her family, where she belonged.

She moved gingerly, as if she somehow feared disturbing the balance of her mother's room, slowly taking in the contents atop the desk—the family photos from years ago (they hadn't had a family portrait in ages, and now it seemed like a sign of the times), the little paperweights, the worry stone worn with grooves left by hours of being rubbed by her mother's thumb (Erin used to keep them everywhere, in a bowl by her bedside, one in the cup-holder of her car, some in a dish in the living room, and she'd simply pick them up, almost without even realizing it).

She shouldn't be here. With a sudden sense of urgency, Jordan scooped up the gilded wastebasket, quickly opening and closing the drawers and cabinets of the large hutch-credenza behind her mother's desk, trying not to look at anything, trying only to find the little bottles hidden between the binders and books and stacks of papers. She moved to the filing credenza, then to the bookshelf on the other side of the room. She saved the desk for last.

The commotion in Erin's office had suddenly fallen silent, and Carrington took a moment to glance in the open doorway. Erin's daughter sat at the desk, looking so much like her mother that it took Carrington by surprise. She hadn't seen the resemblance until now—it wasn't a likeness in physical traits, but a likeness in physicality, the way Jordan's shoulders shifted forward, as if she were carrying the weight of the world, the downward turn of her mouth that seemed like resting bitch face but really was a mind distracted by too many thoughts and not enough answers, the strange airiness of her fingers lightly moving over the surface of the desk as she reached for a family photo, the clear determination of those green eyes as they searched for some unattainable answer in the picture frame.

Carrington had actually missed her boss—and sadly, she was pretty sure that she was the only person in the building who did. The people underneath Erin knew her too well to miss her, and the people above her didn't know her enough to miss her. Carrington knew her, and more importantly, she felt that she understood her. After seven years of taking care of Erin Strauss, Carrington had probably witnessed more sides of the woman than anyone else in the Bureau, and because of that up-close-and-personal view, she felt that she had a better grasp on Erin's true personality, on the daily demands of her position, on all the unique factors of her existence.

For the first time in almost fourteen weeks, Carrington had found someone who shared her sense of loss (though she knew and understood that Jordan's longing was deeper and stronger than her own, there was still some piece of empathy in it). She timidly stepped into the doorway, a small sad smile as she admitted, "You look like her, you know—sitting there, just like she does."

"We don't look alike," Jordan corrected, her voice matter-of-fact but not unkind (reminding Carrington of Erin yet again). "We just...we have the same mannerisms."

"That's what I meant."

"Oh." Jordan seemed as if she temporarily regretted her earlier statement, but she quickly covered whatever emotion flitted across her face before Carrington could actually identify it. After a beat, she motioned to the bonsai plant, "Thank you, for...taking care of it."

Carrington nodded, another soft smile on her lips as she admitted, "I couldn't let it die, or even...your mother would be upset, if I let it get unruly. It was her way of relieving stress, just zoning out for a few minutes, trimming the leaves. I could always tell how bad her day was, based on how much she pruned away."

Jordan gave a smile at the last comment.

"I come in here and trim it at the table," Carrington motioned to the little conference table at the other end of the room. "It feels too strange, sitting at her desk."

"It feels like her," Jordan agreed, looking around the room with a wistfulness that saddened her mother's receptionist.

"How is she?" Carrington took a few steps inside the room.

"She's well," the younger woman answered diplomatically, and Carrington suddenly remembered what Erin had once said about her eldest daughter— _she's always been a grown-up, she was a four-year-old adult, always serious and sometimes sad_.

She could see that, could even see the unspoken lines in Jordan's face as she turned to the window.

"I don't know when she's coming back here, though," Jordan admitted, giving a slight frown. There was another thoughtful silence, during which Carrington heard her sigh, saw her shift, felt her mentally weighing her next thought. There was something she wanted to share, something she wasn't sure that she should share, something rattling around in her chest that needed to be expressed in some way to someone (and Carrington understood that, understood that feeling of helplessness and loneliness, that feeling of singularity, of isolation, of needing to be connected).

Against her better judgment, Jordan finally voiced her thoughts, "She missed her birthday. Two weeks ago, I tried to go out to see her, but there was this thing, and I...I didn't go. When I called to apologize and wish her a happy birthday anyways, she'd forgotten. She said she hadn't really thought about it."

With a sudden shake of her head, Jordan turned back to the office, standing as she resumed a curt air, "I don't know why it meant so much to me, or why I'm telling you—"

"I'm glad that you did," Carrington spoke quickly, trying to soothe whatever jagged edges were left by the opening of this wound, by the vulnerability of the moment. Suddenly, she became shy again, but she continued onward, gently, hesitantly, "It's...it's good, sometimes, just to tell other people our stories. Because most of the time, they understand, because they have stories like that, too. And then...then you realize that you're not so alone."

Jordan took a moment to scrutinize the brunette with the same odd clinical efficiency of her mother, simply stating, "You have stories like that, too."

It wasn't a question, or even a guess. She understood that Carrington's expression was one of empathy, not merely sympathy.

The older woman simply nodded, but she didn't elaborate any further, so Jordan didn't pursue the subject.

"And thank you," Jordan motioned around the office. "For letting me in, for whatever strings you had to pull—"

"It wasn't a problem," Carrington assured her.

The younger woman arched her brow with an incredulous slow burn that Carrington had thought only Erin Strauss could express. "This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm pretty sure they don't just let anyone waltz in, especially if that person wants to rifle through the office of one of their section chiefs."

The brunette simply smiled in admission. Jordan picked up the waste bin again, which now rattled and chimed with the sound of bottles (though only a few, thankfully). "Um...I don't know if...can I just walk out of here with this—would they, will there be—"

"I'll take care of it," Carrington stepped forward, pulling the trashbag out of the bin and tying the top into a neat little knot.

"Just...I don't want to leave it for the cleaning staff because...well, I mean, I guess I know that people know about Mom, but I don't want to give them something else...it's, it's not right, they don't know her, and they don't know—"

"I'll take care of it," Carrington repeated, taking a moment to place a reassuring hand on Jordan's shoulder. "There's a back exit, next to some dumpsters—I'll toss it on my break."

The younger woman gave a quick nod of approval, her throat suddenly swelling with unshed tears. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't have to be cleaning up after her mother, shouldn't be the parent to her own parent, shouldn't be the one knowing this shame and this need for secrecy, shouldn't be a part of this world at all. And in a horrible ouroboros of emotion, she both resented her mother for putting her in the position and felt guilty for feeling such resentment, for being so petty and selfish and childish and all the things that she couldn't and shouldn't be right now.

Carrington had turned away to gingerly set the bag next to the door, and when she turned back to Jordan, she was shocked to see the immediate change that had overcome the younger woman. Jordan was still standing there, in her motorcycle boots and babydoll dress, looking like a little lost girl as she kept her arms wrapped awkwardly around the waste bin, clutching it with the white-knuckle fervor of someone whose world is slowly spiraling out of control or comprehension, tight-lipped and vacant-eyed, retreated so far into her own head that she seemed completely oblivious to Carrington's presence.

And, strangely enough, that was the moment in which she looked the most like her mother—the fear and uncertainty and conflicting thoughts deep within—and Carrington felt her own pang of regret (because she wished that she'd said something months ago, said something to Erin when she knew that she was slipping again, said anything to help, to ease whatever burdens she could for a woman who'd always seemed like a mountain of fortitude).

So she did the one thing that she never did to Erin, the one thing that she'd since wished she'd done.

Carrington moved back to Jordan with a quiet cautiousness, trying not to scare her or shake her too violently from her thoughts, gently taking the trash can away from the girl's arms. This brought Jordan back to the present moment, and she blinked slightly, offering a small, almost-apologetic smile. Her mother's receptionist set the waste bin back beside the desk, and then wordlessly wrapped her into a hug. There was a beat as the younger woman simply accepted the comfort, then her arms returned the embrace.

"I knew," Carrington confessed. "I should have said something sooner."

"Me, too," Jordan whispered. She pulled back, looking into Carrington's eyes so that she could understand the truth of her next statement, "It's not your fault."

"It's not yours, either."

This simple absolution renewed the tears brimming in Jordan's eyes. "I know. I don't always believe it, but I know."

"Believing and knowing aren't always the same thing," Carrington commiserated.

Jordan gave a small nod, her eyes latching onto Carrington's again ( _you have stories like that, too_ ).

Dear god, her eyes. Those were the kind of eyes that took you by surprise, seemingly ordinary and unremarkable until you were caught by them, sliced to the soul by their depths, by their startling clarity and their precision, the kind of eyes that could take in the whole world with a single glance, the kind of eyes which toppled empires and made slaves of powerful men, the kind that stopped the air in your lungs with one accidental encounter, trapping your with one little peek at the soul beneath.

Just like her mother's eyes.

* * *

 _ **February 2015. The Strauss House. Vienna, Virginia.**_

Jordan stared at the empty space in the front hallway, where Dora Carrington had stood just a few moments before. In all the years that she'd known her mother's former secretary, she'd never seen her act this way.

Granted, for the most part, her interactions with Carrington had been simple and short—excepting that one time, the very first time they'd met, when Jordan had come to Erin's office to clear out any hidden stashes of booze while her mother was still in her fourteen-week detox program, and _that_ experience had certainly been an exception in all sense of the word. But even then, Dora Carrington had always been a bit quiet, thoughtful, and relatively soft-spoken.

She'd certainly never treated Jordan as harshly as she just did—the younger woman still wasn't sure what had brought on such a scathing indictment.

Her cellphone buzzed. Her stomach rumbled in anxiety when she saw that it was from Carrington.

 _Call Cruz. Or I will._

Ever her mother's child, Jordan Strauss did not respond well to ultimatums. Still, she knew that Carrington had a point.

Her mind replayed the last look that the brunette had given her, the unmistakable reproach and frustration that had laced the pain and fatigue in her blue eyes. As if Jordan should've already known the answer to her question about Carrington's reason for getting involved.

She did know, she supposed, deep down. But that wasn't her fault.

Her phone buzzed again. Another text from Carrington—no message, just a virtual card file with Mateo Cruz's contact information.

She stared at her phone screen for a few beats, her mind turning and churning like a whirlpool. Either way, Chief Cruz was going to find out—and if Carrington ended up being the one who told him, it'd look bad for both of them (she planned to keep Dora's involvement out of the picture, to save the woman's job). But she couldn't keep this from David Rossi, either—hell, at this point, he might have already found this information on his own, but she couldn't take the chance of not knowing for sure. Despite Carrington's insistence that the BAU shouldn't be further involved, Jordan knew that there wasn't a group of people whom she trusted more—and as Carrington had pointed out, this was about saving Linnea's life, which was more important than protocol or an interdepartmental hierarchy.

Jordan opted for a compromise. She saved Cruz's VCF to her phone and called the cell number attached to it. As she waited for him to answer, she told herself that she'd call Dave as soon as she finished telling Cruz about the footage and Linnea's disappearance.

It certainly wasn't going to be a pleasant experience—for either phone call. Unfortunately, it was about on-par with the rest of her week.

Maybe she'd call Carrington, after she'd told Dave the news. Maybe she'd just leave the woman alone, letting her stew in whatever righteous indignation she'd somehow cooked up.

 _As if I made her do anything. Yes, I called and asked for her help—but she could've just as easily refused. I can't be held responsible for her actions._

A softer voice echoed that it was her past actions that had influenced Carrington's present ones, but she studiously ignored it. Another trait she'd learned from her mother—consummate self-denial.

* * *

 _ **FBI Evidence Lab, Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Jeff Masterson took a full beat to stare at the half-charred book that his supervisor had just tossed onto the metal lab table—the book wasn't nearly as startling as the announcement that had come with it.

"Wait, Reid isn't our doctor?" Rowena Lewis leaned forward as well, equally surprised.

Jack Dawson motioned to the journals that were currently in their hands. "Every reference to Reid calls him Agent Reid instead, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Rowena spoke slowly, her mind catching up to his insinuation.

"Why call him _Agent_ Reid, but then use the term _doctor_ in indirect reference?" Dawson asked. "It creates too much confusion."

"These were for Fuller's benefit only," Roe held up her journal, as if emphasizing her point. "It may seem confusing to us outsiders, but he's the one who wrote it—he'd know exactly whom the label was referring to."

"Like the way he uses _she_ instead of a proper name," Jeff piped up. "He doesn't need to mention her name, because he knows who she is, and he'll remember who he's writing about, every time that he goes back to read the entries."

"So why didn't he do that with Reid?" Dawson queried, setting his hands on his hips. Mac made a small noise that implied her support for his point.

Jeff shrugged, "Maybe he didn't care about Reid—we've theorized that these journals were an insurance policy, maybe they were _because_ of Reid."

"Makes sense," Roe agreed. "Fuller wants insurance against Reid because he doesn't trust him, but he doesn't want to implicate his female accomplice—because he _does_ trust her."

"I think it's more than just trust," Mac informed them, taking the newspaper that had been tucked under her left arm and setting them on the table as well. "These last few installments in Fuller's newspaper collection—they have very little to do with the actual Amerithrax case. However, they do contain full articles on Dr. Maura Morrow, who just so happened to be one of the civilian experts assigned to the Amerithrax letters."

"So…the guy gets some kind of weird obsession with one of the experts from the case and…how does that translate to bombing the Bureau?" Jeff Masterson still felt lost.

"We're working on that," Dawson assured him. He nodded towards the journals again. "I just need you two to make sure my theory can hold water—that Morrow is both the doctor and your mysterious she."

Masterson looked skeptical, but Lewis nodded readily in acquiescence—not surprising, because Dawson had gotten the distinct impression that the woman was particularly fond of Spencer Reid.

"Meanwhile, I'll have Sura Roza look into this Dr. Morrow. We'll find out how she's connected to all of this." Dawson had his cellphone out, dialing the analyst's number.

She answered immediately, "What's up?"

"I need you to look into Dr. Maura Morrow—she was a civilian consultant on the Amerithrax case."

"Got it. And I need you to report back to Torchwood, Captain Jack. It hasn't been all quiet on the western front while you were away."

"I'm on my way," he promised, feeling a slight flicker of adrenaline and fear—it had to be something big if Sura couldn't just tell him the news over the phone. He returned his attention back to Mac, "Keep me posted."

"Of course," Mac gave a curt nod.

Dawson offered one last smile of thanks before leaving, doubling his pace as soon as he was out of the lab.

The distance between the main building and the Academy was an easy jog, made slightly more difficult by the cold air slicing into his lungs and the unevenness of the unfamiliar terrain. The hour was late and there were hardly any cars or agents around, giving the whole place an eerie, abandoned feeling which did nothing to help the unnameable un-ease that was sinking into his gut.

It must have been serious news indeed, because Sura Roza didn't greet him with a smile whenever he entered the small office-turned-headquarters.

"What've you got for me?" He closed the door behind him, turning to give his full attention to the woman behind the computer.

"It's not Sura you should be talking to," Judith Eden piped up from the sofa in the corner. Her shoes were off and her long legs were curled underneath her like she was enjoying a night by the fire instead of stuck in the FBI Academy. She looked up at him, her face lined with a fatigued seriousness. "Chief Cruz has some kind of new information. He wanted you to be here when he revealed it to us all."

Her words implied her usual sense of playful mocking, but she was too tired to infuse the right tone into them. She was back in her shoes, and back on her feet, "C'mon, we might as well join them now."

"If they're all waiting, why were you in here?" Jack asked.

"For reasons," was her enigmatic reply. "Now, c'mon."

Jack stepped aside, holding the door open for Jude as he looked back to Sura in slight confusion, "Torchwood?"

"It's a _Doctor Who_ reference," Jude informed him on her way out. "I told her you wouldn't get it—uncultured American that you are."

She took a moment to turn to Sura Roza again, "And if he were _that_ particular Jack, we'd all be in trouble."

"A girl can dream, can't she?" Sura merely winked.

"I have no idea if that's a good thing or a bad thing," Jack admitted.

"Depends on who you ask," Jude shrugged, making her way down the hallway.

Her team leader followed, quickly catching up to her long, uneven strides. "How many Captain Jacks are there in the world of fiction?"

"A lot, apparently. Captains are common and so are Jacks."

"Except me, right?"

"Well, you're not really a captain, are you?"

"I was captain of the debate team in high school."

"Of course you were."

Jack grinned at her deadpan delivery, moving forward again to open the door for her. They swept into the conference room, where Jess, Jonas, Cruz, and O'Donnell were already waiting.

It took Jack about five seconds to realize why Jude had been hanging out with Sura instead of waiting with the others—given Keller's body language, it was obvious that the two had gotten into yet another fight.

"Now that we're all here," Cruz stood, not wasting a moment. "I've just received a call from Jordan Strauss—who apparently has been trying to contact Linnea Charles unsuccessfully for the past twenty-four hours."

"We did ask her to reach out to Linnea," Dawson admitted with a curt nod, setting his hands on his hips. Shostakovich and O'Donnell were seated, but something told him that he wasn't going to be hanging around long enough to get comfortable.

"That's where it gets interesting—apparently, Linnea Charles has been missing for over a day. And by missing, I mean there's a compelling amount of evidence that she might have been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" Jude bolted in surprise.

Cruz gave a grim nod. "She was last seen at _The District Times_ newspaper office—they have some security footage showing what could be foul play. Linnea also hasn't checked in with Jordan or any of her coworkers since yesterday afternoon. The only person she's supposedly contacted was her husband, and that was only via text."

"Oh god," Jonas Shostakovich murmured—because like everyone else in the room, he understood how easy it would be for a kidnapper to keep Linnea's phone and pretend to be her.

"Keller, you're with me," Dawson jerked his thumb towards the door. "We're going to look at that security footage now. Eden, call Linnea's husband, set up an interview."

Keller was already out the door and Jude was nodding in agreement.

"I'm sending you the info on who to contact at _The Times_ ," Cruz informed him, pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket. "A reporter named Johnny Adams. He'll be waiting for you—apparently Linnea suspected that there might be repercussions from covering this story, and she'd set up safeguards before her disappearance."

"Smart girl." Jack Dawson felt a wave of admiration for the report who'd been a pain in his side up until now. "Smart, smart girl."

He only hoped that she was smart enough to stay alive.

* * *

 _ **David Rossi's House. Rural Virginia.**_

Dave had barely finished his phone call with Jordan Strauss before his cell rang again—there wasn't a name on the caller ID, but he answered anyways. "Agent Rossi speaking."

"David Rossi, it's a good thing you're not anywhere near me right now, because I'd throttle you with my bare hands if I could." The English accent was unmistakably Judith Eden's, and the anger within it was equally unmistakable.

Honestly, there were so many reasons that she could possibly be pissed at him, he wasn't sure what to confess and what to deny. So instead, he said, "Would you prefer to clarify your statement, Agent Eden?"

"You know good and damn well what I'm on about." Interestingly, her accent was thicker when she was upset. "You've known that Linnea Charles has been missing for hours, and you didn't say word one about it."

Ah, so Jordan's warning had come home to roost—she'd called a few minutes ago, telling him about the security footage implicating Linnea's possible abduction, and also informing him that Matt Cruz was aware of the situation as well. Apparently Cruz had brought the Flying Js into the loop in the relatively short time that Jordan had spoken to him. His section chief's efficiency was both admirable and irritating as hell.

"And to make matters worse, I looked like a complete arse, calling Mason Charles to confirm the story—because he was under the mistaken notion that we here at the Bureau actually _share_ information with one another." The sarcasm dripping through every syllable of her tone could've drowned a man. "Apparently, you already spoke to him, earlier today."

"I did. And I'm sure you were able to recover from the snafu with unequaled grace and charm."

"Flattery doesn't charge these batteries, Agent Rossi. Particularly when it's trying to divert my attention from the fact that you and your team willingly withheld information from the investigation—possibly at the expense of a woman's life."

She was right, of course. David had known that they'd messed up, the instant that Jordan had told him about the security footage. Still, he bridled at the accusation that he'd intentionally put Linnea Charles' life on the line. "Look, at that point, we didn't have any solid evidence that she was truly missing—there wasn't enough to even file a police report—"

"Oh, spare me the attempts at justification." Even through the phone, Rossi could feel Eden rolling her eyes. "I don't give a damn why you did it, really. Just be glad that I'm the one who made the call, and not Jack Dawson."

"Does he not know?"

"That you withheld vital information that may or may not save a woman's life? No, not yet. And I don't plan on telling him unless I have to." Now Eden's voice changed, softening ever-so-slightly, "Heaven help me, I understand why you did it, Rossi. But I'm still pissed as hell."

"I'm not sure what you want from me, Eden." He chose the path of honesty.

She sighed. "I want to make sure there's nothing else that I need to know before I go looking for this woman."

"I can tell you what Mason Charles told me, but it isn't much. And I can tell you that we've already checked her grandmother's house, where she'd supposedly told her husband that she'd be staying, and no one's been there in weeks—and that when we left Mr. Charles, he was convinced that Linnea wasn't missing at all, because nothing in her behavior was out of the ordinary. At the time, we had no solid proof that she'd been abducted."

"At the time?" Dammit, Eden was too quick a study. "So you know then, about the new evidence?"

He didn't answer. He didn't have to—and he didn't have to be a free-range vibe-feeling hippie to sense the anger coming across the line at him. However, she kept her emotions in check, her voice low and serious as she spoke, "I need to know that this won't happen again. I have to be able to justify not reporting this to Dawson and the others."

He understood that _the others_ were Cruz and O'Donnell—men who could have his head on a platter, if the mood struck them.

Still, he had to be honest, "Eden, I can't promise anything right now—except that I will do whatever it takes to prove Spencer Reid's innocence."

"Even at the risk of some innocent civilian's life?"

He frowned at that question, which hung in the air for far too long. But before he could reply, the line went dead.

"Something wrong?" Alex Blake's quiet voice gently returned him to his own study, where he and Alex had bunkered down for a few more hours of scouring through potential cases. He glanced up to see that despite her attempts to keep a neutral face, her big brown eyes were nothing but worry.

Taking a deep breath, he quietly admitted, "I think we made a mistake."

He relayed the news of Linnea Charles' apparent abduction, after which Blake simply asked, "Are you going to tell Hotch?"

"I don't think I have much choice," he was already dialing his unit chief's number.

Aaron certainly wasn't pleased with this new development, but his only response was, "It's out of our hands now. Dawson and his team will handle it however they see fit, although if yours and Emily's theory about the kidnapper is right, I hope they won't spook him, for Linnea's sake. Either way, I doubt they'll want our input at this point."

"Agent Eden made it pretty clear that she'd prefer not to hear anything else I had to say on the matter," Rossi admitted.

"Can't blame her," Aaron muttered, and his friend gave a hum of agreement. Then the younger man simply sighed, deep and heavy.

"Get some sleep, Aaron," Dave commanded.

"Shouldn't you be doing the same?"

"I'm old. Old people don't sleep."

Alex Blake gave a small snort of amusement at the quip, but never looked up from the tablet in her lap.

"Tell Blake to get some rest, too." It wasn't surprising that Aaron knew that she was still awake, too.

"We're wrapping up for the night," Dave promised. Now Alex looked up at him, giving a small nod of agreement—they'd both almost finished sorting through their respective lists of potential cases.

"Let me know if anything else happens with Linnea Charles."

"I will."

Blake waited until Dave had hung up before asking, "What did Agent Eden say to you?"

He looked at her in askance, but she knew it was a farce. She'd noted the haunted look in his eyes right before his phone call with the woman had ended. So instead, she pressed further, "There was a moment, when you were on the phone with her. She must have said something that upset you, because there was this...change in you. You looked like you'd been sucker-punched."

 _This is what I get for letting a profiler into my house,_ Rossi reminded himself tiredly. He knew he couldn't escape Blake's curiosity or concern, so he met it, "She accused me—all of us, I guess—of trying to prove Reid's innocence at the cost of other innocent lives."

Blake made a face. "That's a pretty heavy accusation to lay at your doorstep."

"Problem is, it might be true," Rossi looked down at his desk, which was covered with notes he'd taken on all the cases he was rifling through. "Prentiss and I could have pressured Mason Charles into being more concerned about his wife's disappearance. We could've put leaned on the local PD, _made_ them take it seriously."

"But you didn't," Blake finished for him.

Rossi gave a small nod.

"And why didn't you?" Blake asked in her teacher-tone, already knowing the answer.

"Because we just weren't sure," Rossi admitted. However, he lacked conviction.

"Because you thought it was the best way to keep Linnea safe. Because you are a seasoned investigator, who has seen this type of scenario play out more times than you'd care to admit. Because you trusted that infamous gut of yours and made the best call at the moment. Because you were boots on the ground, not some arm-chair general looking back with the 20/20 vision of hindsight."

Alex Blake's voice never strayed from its usual soft and serious cadence, but the lines around her dark eyes were set with righteous determination ( _don't you give out on me now, Rossi_ ).

He smiled softly, knowing that even if he didn't agree with her assessment, he wasn't foolish enough to say so aloud. Instead, he simply said, "I miss you sometimes, you know that?"

She gave a small smile of her own, opening her hands with a flourish, "Well, I'm here now."

"Drinking my good scotch, keeping me from wallowing in self-pity," Rossi found a way to make that sound like a complaint, and his former teammate laughed at his grumpy-old-man act.

"You're welcome," she bowed her head slightly, as if she were bestowing a great honor upon him.

He shook his head and returned to the list of cases. Despite the smile on his face, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that Judith Eden's words had left behind.

Worse was the nagging suspicion that they were true—and by association, what kind of person that made him.

* * *

" _I wonder if I've been changed in the night. Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!"_ _  
_ _~Lewis Carroll_ _._


	23. See a Penny, Pick it Up

**See a Penny, Pick It Up**

" _When two people are in love, they are parallel lines. That intersect. Together but separate. Infinity."_ _  
_ _~James Collins_ _._

* * *

 _ **February 2014. The Hotchner House. Suburbs outside Washington, D.C.**_

Emily was wiping away tears, but Aaron didn't ask her why—by now, he knew that it was simply something that she did every time she climaxed. He'd learned this secret about her five months ago, the first time that they'd crossed the boundary of their previous relationship. There was one exception, and it was their last time together, their last morning in Nairobi. She'd laughed instead—her eyes had still glistened, but no tears had escaped.

She took a heavy drag of air and let out a long, controlled breath. He didn't have to look at her to know that she was slowly clicking herself back into place, mentally compartmentalizing things. He kept his gaze at the ceiling, quietly allowing her the chance to regroup—he also didn't have to look at the clock to know that their few stolen hours together were almost up, and soon it would be time to take her to the airport and watch her board the plane for England.

He didn't want to think about that, not just yet. So instead he imagined how they looked, lying side-by-side, stark naked and staring at the ceiling. They were mirrors—dark hair, dark eyes, his scars from Foyet, her scars from Doyle. A perfect match.

He'd never thought of them in such terms. But it didn't make it any less true. They were a match, in many respects—not in all ways, not in everything, but in the things that counted, they were well-suited if not always perfectly aligned. They had their similarities to bind them, and their differences to add necessary balance.

But in some ways, they were too alike—their commitment to work being the starkest similarity. That commitment had kept them alone for so long, and that same commitment kept them apart, even now. And despite the problems it caused, neither one regretted their dedication, in themselves or each other.

In moments like this, however, it was harder to remember that he didn't regret his life's decisions.

Once Emily had fully returned to her body, she rolled onto her side, pulling herself closer to him again. The bedsheets were on the floor somewhere—she was fairly certain they'd gotten kicked off in the mutually-incited skirmish that had just been waged across the entire length of Aaron's bed, though she couldn't say that she was paying too much attention to be entirely sure. Her mind had, understandably, been on other matters.

It had been five months since her skin had touched his, but it felt like ages had passed—of all the men she'd known, she couldn't remember missing anyone as much as she did Aaron. Not that she'd admit that—it would be an exercise in futility, since neither one could leave their present life behind. She knew that it was too optimistic to hope that one day, they'd be able to be together, _really_ together, but she couldn't find the strength to kill that senseless hope just yet.

But she would begin the process—death by a thousand small, painful cuts. And it began the way that it always did, with a series of simple reminders.

She reminded herself that Aaron was still dating Beth. And that Beth was a good, decent human being, more than capable of healing Aaron in all the ways that Emily couldn't—and even though Hotch had told her that he'd felt Beth drifting since her move to New York, their relationship was still more than whatever this was between him and Emily.

She reminded herself that she lived an entire ocean away, and that she had no intention of leaving a job that engaged and fulfilled her. And there was no way that she could let Aaron do that, either.

Then she quietly reminded Aaron, "This is more than just a fling to me."

"I know." His tone provided the rest: _it's not just a fling for me, either._

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. He gave a light sigh as the silence filled with the other part of her usual reminder—the part she hadn't spoken aloud yet. This was more than just a fling, emotionally, but practically, it couldn't be anything more than that. It was what it was, and it only existed when they were _here_ —here, in the same space, in the same moment, physically together.

"I don't want to fuck up your life here, Hotch," she admitted, her words becoming muffled as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. It was a tender gesture, but he also understood the stealth behind it—her lips were on his pulse-point, as if trying to monitor how stressful this discussion was for him. Slightly manipulative, but at the same time, he knew that she was well-aware of the fact that he wouldn't honestly tell her if he were upset, so he didn't blame her for the subterfuge.

He wanted to tell her that she couldn't possibly mess up something that she was supposed to be in, but he didn't. Instead, he simply said, "If I thought the complications involved would be more than I could handle, I wouldn't have done this."

She gave a hum of agreement—Aaron Hotchner was many things, and generally he was a concise and calculated man. But she also knew that love sometimes made people do impulsive things—because yes, this was love, they'd said it, they'd acknowledged it back in Nairobi, and neither one was a fan of saying meaningless things.

She pushed her doubts and fears aside and returned to a more playful subject, sitting up to look down into his dark and serious face. "It's a lot more fun when I don't have a bullet hole in my leg, isn't it?"

In Nairobi, she'd been shot by Constance Connelly, an Interpol analyst who'd turned out to be a sleeper agent for Mossad's Kidon, a covert unit specifically designed to assassinate enemies of Israel—and the terrorist they'd been chasing could have certainly counted as such. They'd been in a race against time, each trying to get to the terrorist in question, Mariatu Wasaki, before the other did—and Connelly's aim had been merely to wound and distract, rather than kill. Emily had gotten a bullet in the leg, and in true Emily fashion, she'd recovered quickly, but the incident had left its mark, only fueling her determination to finally cross the line of _what if_ with Aaron.

"I still remember having plenty of fun," he assured her with a sly smile. That grin turned softer as he added, "Besides, it was the bullet hole that finally brought us together, wasn't it?"

She made a slight face as she considered, "We were already on that track by then. I can honestly say that it helped, but I totally would've jumped your bones with or without a brush from death."

He laughed as he pulled her down into a kiss, and his teeth on her lips said that the feeling was mutual.

The alarm on Emily's phone went off. She strangled a frustrated groan.

"I'm not ready to leave yet," she whined.

"I know," he kissed her forehead—something her mother would do, whenever she dismissed her from a room or a conversation.

* * *

The ride to the airport had been quiet, but once they were on the tarmac, Emily talked about random, mundane things, as if trying to fill the air with words because she feared what might slip out in the silence. Aaron didn't mind, because truth be told, he missed getting to be a part of the random and mundane parts of her daily life, the way he had been before. He joined her in the farce, adding his own stories and thoughts, and all too soon, the pilot was waving for Emily to board the small private jet.

She turned to give him a quick, hard kiss, as if she were stamping an imprint on his mouth. Then she was moving, before he could pull her back, offering a false flashing smile over her shoulder, "See ya later, Hotchner."

"I'd prefer sooner rather than later," he informed her, raising his voice to be heard over the plane and the wind.

She was really grinning now, turning to backpedal as she held out her arms, "Don't worry. I'll be back soon enough. I'm like a bad penny. You couldn't get rid of me, even if you tried."

* * *

 _ **February 2015. The Hotchner House.**_

Aaron's heart leapt to his throat when he heard the knock on the front door—but it certainly wasn't from fear. Earlier today, at the airport, he'd made it clear to Emily that he wanted to pick up where they'd last left off, and she'd been equally clear in her approval of that plan. However, they hadn't had the time to sort out the _how_ or the _when_. He'd kept a quiet faith that Emily, his self-described bad penny, would show up when she could.

Lucky pennies showed up like that, too. Whenever they could and whenever you truly needed them.

He opened the door, and despite knowing full well who would be there, he still felt a wave of surprise. She had the ability to do that to him—a stray glance, an accidental look, and he'd be struck by just how shockingly gorgeous she was. _Shockingly_ wasn't the right word, he realized, but he couldn't quite think of a better one.

In his defense, he was slightly distracted. Here was Emily Prentiss on his doorstep, breathless and anxious and wide-eyed and wonderful.

"I told Penelope that I was going out to check on Declan," she admitted, her voice barely audible. Her lungs suddenly felt two sizes too small as she thought about the last time she'd returned home—his teeth and tongue and hands had found her with the fervor and urgency of a man dying of thirst. She tried not to think about the fact that being here, standing in front of him, was somehow her definition of home. But it wasn't an easy task—he was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled grey t-shirt whose vulnerable and sleepy wrinkles made her throat tighten with all the pieces of him that she'd missed. For a moment, she was at a loss at how to proceed—there were so many things to say, to see, to do, where could she start?

She also suddenly realized that she had just appeared on this man's doorstep without the slightest hint of warning. What exactly had she expected to happen?

 _Oh, Emily, you know the answer to that one._

Thankfully, he saved her from her momentary uncertainty, opening the door wider and silently inviting her inside with a gesture which implied that he'd been expecting her. "I was wondering what took you so long."

She grinned at his nonchalance, her nervousness slipping away as she moved past him. She played along, "I told you—you can't get rid of me that easily, Agent Hotchner."

"Then it's a good thing that I really don't want to, Chief Prentiss." The door was closed and he pulled her into him, simply taking a moment to feel her body molding into his with an easiness that belied the fact that it had been twelve long months since they'd even been in the same timezone.

"I love when you call me Chief," she admitted with an amused hum, leaning her chest further into his as she kissed the tip of his chin.

"I'll keep that in mind, Chief," he returned the kiss, except his was on the tip of her nose.

She stopped and pulled him into a proper kiss, the kind that short-circuited his brain and made him remember just how much he'd missed the woman currently clutching at his t-shirt.

Damn his brain for flashing back to the conversation he'd had with Rossi, less than a half-hour ago. He stopped for a moment, "Emily, there's been a development—"

"Are Reid and JJ safe?" She interjected quickly.

"Yes—"

"Then I don't care," she gave a curt shake of her head. "I mean, I should—I _do_ care—but I can't right now. I'll have all day tomorrow to care about this case, and to pretend not to care about you—so can we just forget about everything else for a little while?"

 _To pretend not to care about you_ —Aaron knew exactly what she meant by that. All day, he'd tried to school his glances, to keep affectionate tones from his voice, to make sure he wasn't smiling too broadly at every little thing that she did because it was all so _Emily_ and it was all right here, with him again. There was something comforting in knowing that she'd been waging the same battle.

She was waiting for his response now, fearful shadows around her dark eyes as she catalogued every movement of his face, trying to decipher his inner thoughts—as if she doubted that he could set aside a case, even for a few minutes.

 _There will always be a case._ That was what she'd said to him, in Nairobi, when he'd hesitated about moving forward. Her words were as true now as they were then—for them, there would always be a case, a mystery to solve, a suspect to find, a victim to save. They had to learn how to carve out moments that didn't revolve around that, moments that merely existed for them alone.

Earlier, when Rossi had called and told him about the latest development in Linnea Charles' disappearance, he'd felt a wave of anger. He was tired and he was sick of feeling as if they were showing up a day late and a dollar short to every part of this case—and he was frustrated because he'd had a premonition of how Rossi and Prentiss' decision would end, and that feeling had been proven true.

However, he currently found himself unable to be angry with Emily—not now, not when she was holding him so tightly and looking at him so beseechingly. Everything else was drowned out by the sheer relief of finally having her near him again.

Besides, he knew that once she knew what had happened, she would blame herself. She'd get upset, retrace her own words and actions and motives from her interview with Mason Charles, imagine a hundred different dark outcomes for the situation and hold herself responsible for every single one. He could push this aside a little longer, let her stay shining and beautiful and devoid of guilt for just a few more moments.

He gave a small smile, his hand involuntarily reaching up to brush a stray hair from her face. "We can try, Chief. But you'll have to be very, very distracting."

Now she grinned, and the doubt in her eyes became something much more playful. "I think I'm up to the challenge, Hotchner."

With that, she pulled him back in, her tongue easily slipping past his teeth as her hands pressed into his back, bringing him as close to her as he could physically be. She bit his lip, giving something between a moan of relief and a growl of anticipation.

"Jack—Jack's upstairs, asleep," he gently pulled her back, and her eyes were wide with chagrin.

"Oh, god, I didn't even think about—is this—should I—"

"Don't go." He finished the question and answered it at the same time. With a smile, he added, "Just…be aware."

Her uncertainty melted back into mischievousness. She stepped back, keeping her eyes locked on his as her hands slowly unbuttoned her winter coat. "So…no hallway strip-tease like last time?"

He fought back a laugh—yes, they'd left half their clothes at the front door last time, but _tease_ wouldn't have been an accurate description for that. _Dear-god-get-these-clothes-off-so-I-can-feel-you_ would probably be more apt.

He moved forward again, helping her out of her coat and letting his hands trace their way down her arms. She turned her head slightly, giving him easy access to the soft column of her throat, which he gladly took. She gasped lightly at the heat of his mouth, and he couldn't think of a single sound he'd missed more in the past year.

Emily's only thought was that if this was how he took off her coat, she couldn't wait to see how he'd take off the rest. When it came to how easily he worked her senses, Aaron Hotchner was the best kind of trouble that a man could be.

"Have I mentioned how much I've missed you?" He was murmuring in her ear now, his hands easily settling on her waist as he pulled her closer again.

"No, but I think I'm starting to get the idea," she informed him with a wry grin, her own hands mimicking his movements, slipping under his shirt. Her fingers were still cold from the winter air, but he couldn't have cared less. They were Emily's, and they were here, calling for him. She gently kissed the corner of his mouth, a hint of a kiss rather than an actual one, "What you've missed about me, exactly?"

"It's a long list."

"Better talk fast, then." She was pulling at his shirt, teasing him. His hands returned to her hips, pushing her further back, against the wall. One hand stayed anchored to her hip as the other found its way past the waistband of her jeans.

Emily gave a soft gasp as his fingers brushed past her clit, and he hummed in approval at the slick warmth already awaiting him.

"I thought you said Jack was home," she reminded him breathlessly.

"I did. So try to keep quiet, Chief."

She gave a low growl of frustration, which rumbled into a chuckle— _wicked, wicked man_. He was fully aware of the fact that she wasn't the quietest person in the world, particularly when it came to sex—ah, yes, his mischievous grin told her that he remembered that quite well. He was stroking her easily now, as if trying to draw out some kind of noise from her, teasing her into it. For a brief flash, she wasn't sure if she wanted to hit him or fuck him.

She decided on the more rewarding option (Emily had always prided herself on being a very pragmatic girl). So she grabbed his face with both hands and dove her tongue into his mouth, letting the moan building in her lungs slip into his.

He pulled away, only slightly, "I can't give you my list if your tongue's in my mouth."

"I'm sure I'll understand it anyways—I'm excellent at picking up nonverbal cues, remember?" She could hear the shakiness in her own voice as each movement of Aaron's hand sent another ripple through her hips, which were rolling by their own accord, encouraging him to continue.

"It's always best to be as precise as possible," he reminded her. Jesus, what an absolutely Hotch thing to say—of course, he'd never speak in the low, teasing tone that he was using right now while out in the field. And his current expression, that adorably-teasing smirk and the shining eyes, oh, she'd certainly never seen _that_ out in the field.

"It's also good to be concise," she pointed out. He gave a slight huff of amusement at her impatience. She shared his grin, watching his dark eyes as they moved across her body, watching him silently catalogue and decide where to begin. At this particular moment, she wasn't sure if the tightness in her chest was from adoring fondness or simply a side-effect of his hand's current efforts.

Except the finger against her clit stopped moving. Emily held her breath and his gaze as she waited for him to make his next move, placing her hands on his upper arms, her fingers pressing into his flesh—both to steady herself and to gently remind him that she was still here, still needing attention.

"Your eyes," he decided. His finger moved again, a single, smooth stroke. "I've missed those eyes."

His finger stopped once more, still putting just enough pressure to make Emily's lungs tighten with pent-up electricity.

"Your neck," he moved on, and his finger stroked her again as he dipped forward to place a single, warm kiss on the area.

"Mm-hm, what else?" Emily prompted breathlessly, closing her eyes and trying to remain calm. She could've easily turned the tables, but she loved having Aaron like this, so removed from the stoic team leader she'd known for so many years—and more importantly, she knew that he'd give her a chance to retaliate soon enough. He was a man of principle, after all.

Aaron could feel the tension rippling through Emily's body, the way her muscles tried to hide the shivers that rumbled just beneath her skin, the way she bit her lip and dipped her head forward slightly—she was trying so hard to hold on, to be good and patient, to give him whatever he wanted, the moment he asked for it. But as in all other aspects of her life, Emily Prentiss wasn't the greatest at keeping still or simply passively accepting whatever came her way.

He decided to offer her a measure of relief with his next item on the list. "I've missed the way you touch me."

She breathed a sigh of relief, her hands springing back to life as if compelled by a will of their own, burrowing under his shirt again, slipping around his waist as her fingertips sank deep into the small of his back, silently grateful for the solid feeling of his body in her hands again. Those hands were roving again, in slow, luxurious circles, silently encouraging him to continue his own circular movements on a certain part of her body.

He grinned at this—Emily had always been an easy read, when it came to sex. Her desires had a way of making themselves pronounced in a way that even a blind man could see.

She saw his grin and gave a lazy, warm smile of her own. She knew that he was teasing her, and she didn't mind. She simply pulled him closer to her, letting the wall behind her take her full weight as one leg easily looped around Aaron's, calf to calf.

"I've definitely missed that smile," he informed her, and she gave an amused hum in response, rumbling into a deeper purr as he continued stroking her. He wasn't stopping and starting his motions anymore, and the heat simmering through Emily's hips began to build into waves, her breath coming in ragged gusts as her veins hummed and pounded.

Aaron wasn't talking anymore, merely watching her with those piercing dark eyes, and the acuteness of his gaze was enough to make her heart stop for a full beat. Her wandering hands moved upwards, gently cupping the sides of his face, bringing his mouth back to hers, her tongue pushing her frustration and desire against his own.

He titled his forehead against hers, once their lips broke apart, admitting with a whisper, "This. I've missed this."

Her entire body twittered in response. She was close to the edge and she became more frantic in her movements—her hands clutched at the sides of his face, his neck, his shoulders, his hips, anywhere, anything to keep her from falling away from him.

And then he stopped. The warmth of his hands slipped away and he shifted back slightly.

She looked at him in utter bewilderment, and he merely gave a smile. "I think that's all I have on my list."

The look on Emily Prentiss' face was worth any possible bodily harm that he might suffer for his actions, Aaron decided. Her flushed cheeks only heightened the sheen in her dark eyes, and the heaving of her lungs only brought attention to the enticing pale skin of her breasts. The thin, hard line of her lips opened long enough to emit a small huff of frustration.

Of course, Emily Prentiss was neither a meek or mild woman—he knew that her restraint thus far had merely been her attempt to give him whatever he wanted or needed in that moment. But he wanted Emily at her heart-stopping finest—and that was when she returned his ardor with equal or greater force.

Aaron Hotchner was actually moving _away_ from her, as if he was going to casually stroll down the hallway, as if she were going to _wait_ to make it all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom before receiving any kind of satisfaction.

 _Oh, boy, you've got another thing coming._

She launched forward with a slight growl, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back into her. In any other situation, her body language would've seemed threatening—she stood so close, the tip of her nose touching his, eyes locked and expression deadly serious.

"Finish what you started, Hotchner."

He laughed. He actually _laughed_ in her face. And as frustrated as she felt, Emily found herself grinning too—he was enjoying this way too much, but the delight on his usually-stoic face was worth the teasing, she decided.

Well, _almost_ worth it.

She cupped his face with her hands again, but he reached up to stop her, gently pulling her left hand away as he kept his fingers around her wrist, a fragile prison she didn't wish to escape. His eyes never left hers as he brought his lips to that wrist, bestowing it with one deep, warm kiss.

Emily's throat clicked and tightened as she hurdled into the memory of their very first kiss—he'd ended by kissing her wrist, just like that, after he'd told her that he wanted to kiss her the way she was truly meant to be kissed. It was a simple action that set her skin on fire anew as she remembered everything that kiss had set into motion, almost two years ago.

Gods above, this man was too much, sometimes.

Aaron marked her transformation with slight wonder—now Emily stood completely still, barely breathing as her big brown eyes simply swallowed him whole. She'd remembered (of course she'd remembered), and the nostalgic adoration in her features was so entrancing that he wanted to stay here a moment, learning this new expression. There was a secondary fizzle of delight in knowing that there were still parts of Emily that he hadn't learned yet, secret sides of her that he was seeing, sides that no one else had ever seen. It was a gift of an adventure and he prayed he'd never be stupid enough to take it for granted.

Emily's hand reflexively curled inwards, her fingertips lightly brushing his forehead as her smile deepened, sharing this quiet little secret with him. The blood in her veins was still pounding, but the frenetic franticness had slipped into a slower, steadier pulse—one that beat with inevitability and assurance, a slow-burning intensity that radiated from her hips to her heart and back again.

He was moving slowly again, keeping his eyes locked on hers and devouring every movement with clinical intensity. His hand released her wrist, slipping down her side and around to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him as his other hand found its way back to her pulsing center, a single stroke of his finger sending electricity ratcheting up her spine once more.

She gave a small gasp as her head leaned forward involuntarily, her forehead resting against his shoulder. He turned his face to her, keeping his lips on her hair, feeling the heat of her breath through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Her hands were fluttering like birds in a cage, without purpose or direction, seeking a resting place but never staying still long enough to land. Again, she was overwhelmed by all that she'd missed about this man and her inability to figure out where to start in her rediscovery.

Finally, her right hand landed at the curve of his neck. She could feel his pulse beating against her palm and she held on tighter, feeling her own blood race in rhythm with his. Her hips were rolling again, moving with the strokes of his finger—she pressed further against him, feeling the hardness of his cock against her hip and responding with a rush of wet heat in her own core.

She looked up at him with a lip-biting grin as she slowed the movements of her hips, keeping herself pressed against him. _You wanna play the tease, Hotchner? Well, you're not the only one who knows that game._

He merely grinned in response, and her stomach rippled at the sight.

The ringing of her cellphone ripped through the moment like a banshee shriek, sending a jolt of surprise thought them both.

"I-uh-I-I should…" Her head was still foggy with desire and her lungs still weren't properly functioning, since the tension in her body was making her forget to use them.

"Forget about everything else for a little while," he reminded her huskily, dipping his head lower to whisper in her ear, his grip on the small of her back tightening, keeping her anchored with him. His other hand never stopped, and neither did the waves building and crashing through her hips.

She let a strangled noise, something between a laugh and a groan—she was the one who'd suggested such a thing, and now it was working against her. "But what if—"

"You can belong to the rest of the world later," he informed her. "Right now, you're mine."

Her heart and her lungs skittered in response. He didn't have to look into her eyes to know the tears were already brimming as she tumbled into the thunder and lightning surging through her veins.

* * *

Aaron Hotchner was nothing if not a man of precision and efficiency. Emily smiled smugly to herself as she acknowledged this fact, rolling onto her side to rest her head against his bare chest. His heartbeat was pounding in heavy, steady beats, and she bit back another smile as she closed her eyes, letting her own pulse settle back down to match his. His skin was warm and damp and she'd missed the taste of it, the taste of knowing he was flushed and shining because of her (perhaps it was selfish, but it definitely was a thrilling thought). She lazily traced a whirling pattern across his chest and stomach with her fingertips, her own skin skittering with electricity when his hand returned the motion on the smooth planes of her back.

She missed sex with Aaron. She knew that, she'd always known that. But it wasn't until moments like this that she realized she missed his mere presence so deeply—because it wasn't until she'd returned to that comforting space that she realized how stressful the outside world was. It was like a Kevlar vest—you didn't notice how heavy it was, how much harder it was to move and breathe, until you took it off again. Then you were struck by the difference, slightly amazed at your own ability to function so well while wearing it.

She suddenly felt tired, and torn. The full weight of what had happened to JJ, what was still happening to Reid, finally hit—she'd been running on adrenaline for so long that she'd been able to stave off the fear, but the door had been opened and now that feeling burst in like a flash flood.

Aaron felt the sudden change in Emily—the tension in her muscles, the shift in her breathing, even the way the pressure in her fingertips went from luxuriously lustful to light and distracted. He didn't pull back, didn't let his hands stop their remapping of her skin. He quietly asked, "What's wrong?"

"I'm scared." She admitted, shifting her face upwards, towards his, her words creating warm gusts across his neck.

He knew that she wasn't referring to what was happening in this room—she was talking about all the things happening outside, in the wide and scary world they inhabited.

"Me, too," he returned softly. It was true—he'd held on to hope and determination because at this point, it was all they had in their favor. But as each hour ticked away, he felt the pressure building. These people were his responsibility, and he couldn't protect them. It was the most agonizing and frightening realization, one that could easily spiral if he didn't keep himself busy with trying to fix everything.

Of course, he still hadn't told her about Linnea Charles yet, either.

Emily had known that Hotch was worried—of course he was, he was human and he loved his team, regardless of how little he said it aloud, and he felt that it was his job to keep them all safe. She knew this, she'd felt this for her own agents at Interpol, and yes, she'd seen Aaron's guilt in the moments when she was one of his injured or endangered agents.

She didn't want that. She didn't want fear or guilt—and more importantly, she didn't want Aaron to feel those things, either. He didn't deserve it. Her arms wrapped around his torso, hugging him closer to her, as if she could physically shield him from such emotions.

That small gesture sent a ripple of warmth through Aaron's chest, but it wasn't one created by the simple feeling of Emily's naked body against his own—she wanted to protect him, and the tenderness in her attempt reminded him of her words, the last time she'd been in his bed.

 _This is more than just a fling for me._ He'd known that, even before they'd physically committed to this in Nairobi. And more importantly, he'd returned the sentiment.

He felt another hitch in her breathing, as if she'd prepared to say something and then stopped herself.

Probably her usual mantra of "you don't have to wait for me." Or perhaps that it was time for her to leave.

He didn't want to hear it, and he got the feeling that she didn't want to say it, so he silently changed the subject, gently rolling her onto her back again, leaning over to nip the soft flesh of her breast, committing the sensation of the suppleness beneath his teeth to memory as he re-enacted all the things he'd thought about doing while seated across from her at Penelope's earlier that evening.

She gave a wry hum, drolly intoning, "Subject exhibits cannibalistic tendencies."

He hummed in amusement as well, letting his mouth move further down. _Cannibal? You haven't seen nothing yet, Chief._

She chuckled softly when she realized his intent. Her legs languidly opened for him, and the warmth of his hands on her thighs elicited a small hum of satisfaction.

"I don't think I mentioned this earlier, but I've definitely missed seeing this tattoo," he admitted, planting his mouth on the inside of her right thigh, where the words _bona fiscalia_ were imprinted.

 _Bona fiscalia_. Public property. He knew that this had been her first tattoo, and mainly an attempt to shock and dismay her mother (which, knowing Elizabeth Prentiss, had probably worked exactly as intended). He also remembered her story about a former fiancé, who'd wanted her to get the ink removed—and he was glad that she hadn't caved to the pressure. How many people wore the stories of their lives on their skin with such easy courage, like she did?

"Have you now?" He could hear the grin in her voice as her left leg moved upwards, the bend of her knee hooking around his shoulder.

"Very, very much," he assured her, placing another kiss on that site, following it with a nip of his teeth.

Emily glanced at the clock and made a small noise of dismay. If she was going to convincingly sell her cover story to Penelope, she'd have to be back at a decent time.

"Has the clock struck midnight, Cinderella?" He asked quietly.

"I'm afraid so," she admitted with a regretful sigh.

He propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes finding hers easily, even in the darkness of the room. "Next time, you'd better think of an excuse that'll keep you out all night."

Her expression deepened into something much more devious. "Absolutely."

She sat up and leaned forward, kissing him fiercely and sealing the deal.

His hand on her stomach gently pushed her back again. She gave a slight huff of amusement when she realized that he wasn't going to let her leave just yet.

Noting her (mainly feigned) disapproval, he raised his head again, "What? _You_ were the one who told me to finish what I start."

She really couldn't argue with that. And honestly, she really didn't want to.

Now that there was a moment of silence, Emily could fully hear the faint twittering of her cellphone, which had been abandoned in the pocket of her coat, which was still downstairs.

"Oh, shit," she grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut. The responsibility on her shoulders pushed back against the delight seeping from her hips and she wasn't sure which one she wanted to win, in that moment.

"I really hope that wasn't a commentary on my technique," Aaron's dark head popped up again, expression deadpan. Of course, he'd heard the phone, too, but his quip made Emily laugh, which was its sole purpose.

"Never," she purred, sitting up to give him a regretful kiss. "But I do think it's time to return to the real world."

He knew what she meant by it, but he still fought back the urge to argue that this moment was part of the real world, too. Instead, he sighed and tried to hide his disappointment by lightly offering, "You'll need to shower before you go back."

She hummed in agreement, lifting one leg over him so that she could roll off the bed and onto her feet. "Grab my phone from downstairs and I'll let you join me."

"I thought that was a given."

"I suppose it is," she shrugged a bare shoulder. Then her eyes lit up with mischief as she leaned forward and breathily added, "But I'll be so much more… _grateful_."

He laughed at her act, taking a moment to appreciate the view as she moved around the bed and slipped into the master bathroom before donning his robe and going downstairs to retrieve her phone.

She was already in the shower by the time he returned, and he sensed that she was giving him a few more minutes inside their little bubble—she wouldn't check her phone until after, a small gift of time which he gladly accepted.

"Want me to wash your hair?" That was a joke, and she took it as such, as evidenced by her snort of incredulity.

"You are a man of many talents," she pulled him closer, giving a small hum of delight at the feeling of his body against hers again, "but hair-washing isn't one of them, Hotchner."

"I just don't get enough practice," he informed her, and the flash of hurt in her eyes surprised him, although it disappeared so quickly that he couldn't be sure that it was ever there at all.

Her playfulness returned, unmarred by its brief hiatus. "Make all the excuses you want, buddy, but you're still off salon duty."

"I guess I'll have to find other things to occupy my time."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," she rolled onto her tip-toes, kissing him with a smile.

Her phone burbled again, and she growled a string of choice obscenities as she slipped past him, grabbing a towel and gingerly stepping out of the shower.

Aaron pulled back the shower curtain, watching her as she stood next to the sink, focused on her phone. He envied the rivulets of water, which had the delight of slipping down the length of her legs—terrain he'd covered many times and would never tire of retracing.

His momentary jealousy was cut short by Emily's face, which turned back to him with wide-eyed, ashen cheeked severity. One hand clutched her towel with white-knuckled terror as the other held her phone to her ear.

"Oh god, Aaron, we messed up."

"What is it?" He was out of the shower now, too.

"Linnea Charles. She's—they have proof that she was kidnapped," Emily's brain was still processing the information, but her profiling senses were still intact. She immediately noticed the lack of surprise in her lover's expression. "That's what you wanted to tell me earlier, isn't it? Why didn't you? Why didn't—"

"Because you asked me not to," he reminded her, trying not to sound like a child blaming someone else for his own actions and trying not to over-correct and infuse too much aggression into his tone. "And because there was nothing we could do about it—"

"First of all, you _know_ that I didn't mean it like that—I thought it was something small, not something as big as Rossi and I fucked up and now there's a woman who has been kidnapped for over twenty-four hours, who we could've helped almost half a day ago," Emily threw out her arm, towards the invisible Linnea and her equally-invisible kidnapper. Her other hand stayed firmly clenched on her towel, and Aaron got the feeling that now her grip was less about fear and more about shielding herself from him—shielding because she somehow felt betrayed by his actions.

"You wanted a break from it all—you asked for a moment of just us."

"This was more important. You should have told me anyways, you should have—"

"I should have what? Done exactly what you asked me not to do? Blamed you for Linnea's situation? Told you that you made the wrong choice and now a woman's life is at stake because of it?" The words came quicker and harsher than intended, but Aaron couldn't stop them.

Emily's eyes were as wide open as her mouth, and the hurt in them was unmistakable. She took a breath as if it pained her. "Are you saying that this is my fault?"

"It's what you want me to say, isn't it?"

Emily didn't answer the question, but she didn't wait for Aaron to answer hers, either. She merely returned her attention to her phone, listening to another voicemail. She stopped, looking up at the ceiling as she processed whatever information was coming in via voicemail. Aaron watched her face, knowing that the news wasn't good—and neither was the fact that she was avoiding eye contact.

"Mason Charles got a call from Dawson's team. Apparently they told him the truth, and urged him not to contact Linnea—they seem to be following our theory that she's safer if her kidnapper doesn't know we know she's missing. He called me for some kind of advice. _However_ , I was with you, so…"

She didn't finish the statement. He understood the rest, the unspoken accusation.

"Emily, don't," he warned. She shot him a single cutting look before returning her attention to her phone.

"And he texted me, later," she announced, becoming distracted by the aforementioned text. Then she hissed, "Oh, _fuck_."

"What?" Aaron's query was a mixture of genuine curiosity and the desire to have Emily speak to him again—he could feel the illness brewing between them, and he knew that he had to keep her talking, if they were going to quell it.

She looked up at him again, her face filled with frustration and anger and helplessness. "He didn't listen. He texted Linnea anyways, asked where she was—then started calling, when she didn't answer. He told her the FBI was looking for her, and she needed to call him back, right away. She still hasn't answered. Jesus, Hotch, he may have just signed her death warrant."

She swore again, making a beeline for the bedroom, muttering almost to herself, "I knew this was a mistake."

Those six words stopped Aaron's heart for a full beat, and he felt them as keenly as if she'd smacked him across the face. He recovered quickly, fear propelling him forward as he followed after her.

"What is that supposed to mean?" He demanded, using every fiber of self-restraint to keep his tone in-check.

"I don't—I mean, I shouldn't have—" She pushed out a frustrated sigh that rumbled into a growl, although he couldn't tell if her frustration was directed at herself or him. She was turning around in small, helpless circles, trying to find her clothes, which had been hap-hazardously abandoned throughout the room.

"Shouldn't have _what_?" He hit the last word harder than he intended, and then suddenly remembered that his son was sleeping just down the hallway.

Even if his tone had remained neutral, Emily could feel the anger and hurt radiating off his body in waves, but it was currently the least of her concerns. Her head was swimming with fear and guilt, and the thought that she'd been so stupid and irresponsible was making it hard to breathe. She stopped, holding out both hands as if she could will the rest of the world into pausing as well. "I'm not saying that this whole thing was a mistake. Just…tonight. I shouldn't have come."

"There is nothing that happened in the past hour that we could have possibly prevented or controlled," he pointed out. He felt like was an attorney again, building a case, but the woman in front of him was both judge and jury, and her edict held so much more weight than any other he'd faced. "Dawson and his team are handling Linnea's disappearance now; we couldn't get involved even if we wanted to."

"Mason Charles wasn't calling Dawson—he was calling _me_ , for help. I could have convinced him not to tip our hand. I should have been there for him. I should have answered the damn phone." She still didn't look up, shaking her half-soaked head in self-loathing. "We should have waited—we're in the middle of a case—"

"Emily, look at us—we're always in the middle of a case," he threw his hand out in an expansive gesture. "You said so yourself, in the beginning. It's who we are. If we waited until we weren't on a case, we'd never—"

"Yes, but this isn't just any case, is it?" She wiggled into her clothes, not even drying off, the fabric clinging to her skin as heavily as her guilt. Her hair was plastered around her neck like a noose and she whipped it away with far more aggression than necessary. "It's _Reid_ , for Christ's sake. He needs us, and here we are—I have missed calls from Rossi, from Mason Charles, the whole world's spinning out of control and I was too busy fucking around with you to notice."

"Don't." He commanded, and this time, he didn't give a damn if he was slipping into section-chief mode—he needed her to snap out of this dangerous line of thought, and he'd use every weapon in his arsenal, even if it meant reverting back to their previous relationship of leader and subordinate. "Don't make this sound so base and insignificant."

He grabbed his sweatpants, which had been abandoned on the floor much earlier. He felt naked, both literally and figuratively, and while he couldn't escape the sensation of the latter, he could at least remove the former. In two bounds, he was at her side, gently stopping her from opening the bedroom door. She pulled back, but she still wouldn't look at him—a simple action that hurt more than he'd imagined.

She ducked her head, closing her eyes as she softly admitted, "You don't get it."

"Then tell me. _Make_ me get it." His tone dipped to match hers. She kept her eyes closed, taking a deep, unsteady breath.

"I don't regret this." She breathed the statement like a criminal uttering a damning confession. "I know I should, but even now, I don't."

Now those dark eyes opened, focusing on him with a mixture of heartbreaking fear and intense curiosity, as if she needed to see his reaction and also feared it. "Don't you know how scary that is? It's absolutely petrifying to realize that I'm…I'm letting the world burn."

His throat tightened at her confession, at her acknowledgement that she'd let the world burn—for him. He wanted to hold her, to tell her that they had nothing to regret, to remind her that they'd earned it. Instead, he gently said, "The world's been burning for a very long time. It'll burn with or without you."

She gave a small nod. She swallowed, quietly asking, "But some of these fires—I started them, didn't I? This is my fault. Dave and I should have—"

"You couldn't have known. You made a decision, and it's done." She'd never heard his voice so tender, so heartbroken, and it only racked up her guilt. Aaron could see the emotions rolling across her face—he knew that Emily wasn't the type to be placated, or who even wanted such a thing, so he chose honesty. "We make mistakes. We make bad calls and take wrong turns and it's just what happens sometimes. We don't always win."

"I know," her voice broke slightly at this confession. "But this isn't one that we can afford to lose."

She still looked haunted, but she was pulling him closer again, holding on instead of pushing away. Aaron held on just as fiercely, trying to silently will Emily into self-forgiveness.

That was a battle he couldn't afford to lose, either.

* * *

" _It was good, and nothing good is truly lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of their character. So part of you goes everywhere with me. And part of me is yours, forever."_

 _~Rosamunde Pilcher_ _._

* * *

 ** _*Author's Note: I feel like a few Team Hotchniss readers will feel slightly cheated right now...but can I just promise that I'll make it up to you soon, pretty please?*_**


	24. Flashpoint

**Flashpoint**

" _You are your own worst enemy. If you can learn to stop expecting impossible perfection, in yourself and others, you may find the happiness that has always eluded you."  
~_ _Lisa Kleypas._

* * *

 _ **Somewhere between Quantico and D.C.**_

Due to the lateness of the hour, traffic was light, at times nonexistent. Jack Dawson barreled down the interstate in the big black SUV, keenly aware of the fact that something was going on with his passenger and unsure of how to broach it.

Jessalyn Keller was a quiet soul by nature, but this was too quiet, even for her. She didn't even glance out the window, merely staring at the black dashboard instead. That was usually a sign of her slipping into a depressive state. The silence, and the staring. And sometimes she'd look at him, as if she were in a fog and couldn't quite make out his face. Or she'd get irritable and snappish, easily frustrated—which he guessed was why she and Eden were at odds, though for the most part, those two fought regardless of their current moods.

"You wanna talk about it?" He asked, almost reticently. He kept his eyes trained on the road, but all of his attention was directed at her.

 _Nope, especially not with you_ , Jessalyn's mind shot back. Instead, she switched one frustration for another and simply sighed, "This thing with Reid. It's…I don't know."

"Is that what you and Eden are fighting about? Reid?"

"No." That was truthful, and Jess found that she could infuse honesty with her running deceit. "We fought because I was frustrated over the situation with Reid, and it was easier to snap at her than at him."

"Ah."

"Yeah." Jess gave a mirthless smile. " _Ah_."

"You're frustrated because Reid didn't tell us who the UNSUB is." It wasn't a question, not in the least. Of course, he understood her frustration because he shared it.

Jessalyn tossed out her hands in a gesture of helplessness and confusion, "I mean, he was so adamant. And then suddenly—poof, it's all gone, it's as if we never had that conversation at all, like I just imagined it, like some kind of crazy person."

And here Dawson finally understood the depth of her frustration, realizing that it was tinged with fear. Jessalyn Keller already lived with one form of mental illness, and now she lived in terror of somehow succumbing to another—or at least having her colleagues' think that she'd become unhinged, irreparably damaged by her condition. He fought back the urge to reassure her that no one thought she was crazy, or that she'd imagined Spencer Reid's request to see his team—but he knew that she'd think he was placating her, and worse, she'd hate the thought of being pitied or seen as _less than_.

"Although if anyone is crazy, it's Dr. Reid," she decided, frowning slightly as she looked ahead into the night. "I mean, the way that guy was acting—you should have seen him before, constantly moving around, unable to sit still. And then the instant he's in the room with Hotchner, he just goes board-straight. I mean he could have been a statute, except for moving his mouth and his hand…."

She trailed off, big green eyes still hazily gazing into the darkness surrounding the vehicle. Dawson could almost physically feel the moment that her brain clicked in recognition as she turned to him fully, her entire demeanor suddenly alight with energy.

"Holy shit, Jack—I think I know what Reid was doing. He was tapping his finger, right?"

"Nearly drove me up the wall," Jack admitted with a curt nod, still confused but willing to follow Keller's rabbit trail.

"Only one finger. In a pattern—or what seemed like a pattern."

Now Jack understood, turning to give her a quick glance of surprise.

"Yeah," she confirmed his unspoked question, her eyes dancing. "I think he was using Morse Code."

"Call Sura. O'Donnell had the interview recorded."

Keller was nodding as she pulled her phone out and began dialing.

While they were waiting for Sura to answer, Jack asked, "You really think Aaron Hotchner knows Morse?"

"He wouldn't have to—so long as someone else watching the interview did," Jess pointed out.

"Blake. He didn't start the tapping until Hotchner told him that Blake was there."

Keller's eyes with wide and she pointed at him, silently decreeing, _You're totally right_.

"Roza," she smiled when she said the name. "I've got a job for you."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Lay it on me, lover," Sura was on the phone with Keller, but she was looking at Shostakovich, who was currently installed on the couch in their temporary headquarters. He merely arched his brows suggestively, and she stifled a laugh at his response.

"We think Reid was using Morse Code during his last interview—he was trying to communicate with his team," Jessalyn's voice was quick and almost breathless, and Sura found her sense of adrenaline catching. "O'Donnell had the whole thing taped. I need you to look at the footage and see—"

"Look, I can watch the video and watch him doing whatever, but I don't know Morse Code," Sura informed her.

"I do," Jonas piped up.

Sura looked at him incredulously.

He gave a slight shrug, "I was a boy scout, back in the day."

"That really explains so much about you," she returned flatly, sotto voce.

He was too curious to appreciate her sense of humor—he was already on his feet and moving closer to her desk.

"Joe knows Morse Code, apparently," Sura returned to her conversation with Keller.

"Perfect. Have him take a look, then."

"Will do." Sura hung up and gave Jonas a flashingly sarcastic smile. "Welp, boy scout, time to earn your federal case assistance badge."

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

For a moment, it felt like being in a washing machine. Jennifer Jareau felt her brain rolling and tumbling as her groggy eyes tried to bring the room into focus.

"Well, hello there," Candy Mellinger's unmistakable voice was followed by her equally-unmistakable face, which leaned into JJ's line of vision. "How're you feeling, Jennifer?"

"Not bad, actually," JJ surprised herself with the truthfulness behind her own words. "What—what time is it?"

"A little after ten o'clock at night."

JJ hummed in understanding, closing her eyes as she slowly sat up, waiting for the heady rush of nausea that never came.

"How's your head?" Dr. Mellinger kept her eyes trained on JJ's face, searching for any signs of pain or discomfort.

"It feels…stuffy."

"That's the bandages. Don't worry, you'll be out of them in no time. Any headaches? Any vision problems? Do you feel sick?" The doctor slipped a penlight from her coat pocket and tested the blonde's pupil response.

JJ took a moment to listen to her body before responding, "No. No, not at all."

"Good," the doctor was beaming as she gave a curt nod of approval. She scooped up the chart that she'd set at the end of the bed, glancing at it out of habit rather than actual necessity. "So I talked to your husband earlier tonight—looks like you're going to be released into gen pop."

The prison term threw JJ off for a second, but she quickly recovered, "Wait, I'm leaving ICU?"

"Not right this second," Candy gave a wry smile. "But first thing tomorrow morning—that's if you can make it through the night without incident."

"Then how much longer will I have to stay in the hospital?"

"A week, tops. It all depends on how quickly your recovery goes." Now the doctor softened, reaching out to place a gentle hand on JJ's shoulder. "Jennifer, you survived a huge fall and two rounds of surgery on your skull, with a rash of seizures in-between. Your body needs time to recover. If you try to push yourself too far, too fast, you'll end up back where we started—so I'm keeping you in the hospital until I know for sure that you're ready to go home."

JJ merely nodded, knowing it would be useless to argue.

"I suggest getting some sleep," Candy gave a grin. "Once you're back in a regular hospital room, you'll be able to have visitors around the clock."

JJ grinned as well, knowing that Candy was referring to her son and her husband, who would undoubtedly be spending the majority of the day with her, once they weren't restricted to short and scheduled visitation hours of the ICU.

"But hey," the doctor became serious again. "I mean what I said about overdoing it. Just pace yourself, 'kay?"

She nodded, settling back onto her pillow as she closed her eyes, easily slipping back into the haze of half-sleep. Before she fully drifted away, she silently assured herself: _It's all OK. It's all going to be OK._

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

It was way past Penelope's bedtime, but no way was she going to miss the sight of Emily Prentiss attempting to sneak back into her home like they didn't both know where she'd been or what she'd been doing (well, Penelope didn't know for sure, but she certainly _hoped_ that she had the right idea).

She was installed on the couch, finishing a cup of tea and wearing a cheshire cat grin whenever Emily gently opened the front door, trying to be as quiet as possible.

"Oh, you're still awake," Emily's face was a classic study on surprise and just the right amount of oh-shit-she-caught-me.

"Oh, yes, I am." Not a single note missed the infusion of innuendo as the blonde coyly asked, "So, how was he?"

Emily didn't miss the fact that Penelope used an ambiguous pronoun, but she studiously ignored it. "Oh, ah, Declan was fine. He's grown, since I saw him last."

"He invited you in for a shower?"

"What?"

"Your hair's wet," Penelope motioned to her friend's appearance.

"Oh, no," Emily gave a sheepish smile. "I got out of the car—I wanted to walk by, get a closer look. The damn lawn sprinklers came on."

Her performance was remarkably believable, Penelope had to admit. The story was basic, something that was entirely possible and would totally happen to Emily Prentiss—all in all, an easy sell. However, despite her teasing remarks earlier in the evening, Penelope Garcia was fully aware that her friend was a damn good spy. She'd lived undercover for years and had even fooled her BAU teammates for almost as long, until Doyle had appeared. She would have had plenty of time to prepare and rehearse her lie before returning to Penelope's.

"What's with the crazy grin?" The brunette asked, slipping onto the couch beside her friend.

"Oh, I just imagine that you two had a lot of catching up to do."

"I didn't speak to him—I just do the whole creepy drive-by thing, remember?" Emily looked confused.

Her friend pointedly looked at the imaginary watch on her wrist. "Must've been a long walk through the sprinklers…or maybe you took a little detour?"

"And where would I go, exactly?" Emily was well aware of what her friend was hinting at, but she'd make Penelope say it outright.

"Oh, I don't know," Penelope was pulling herself up onto her crutches with an air of innocence. She moved into the kitchen, washing out her tea mug and setting by the sink.

"You're a strange kitten, you know that, Garcia?"

"That I am, my lover-love. But also a very perceptive one." She stopped for a moment to add, "By the way, nice cologne you've got on. Very…manly. Very…familiar."

The blood in Emily's face disappeared as quickly as a grand piano dropping from a second story window.

Penelope was laughing so hard that she nearly fell over.

"What—I don't—" Emily held up the collar of her shirt, giving it a sniff.

Penelope howled even louder, "You're checking because there's a distinct possibility that you _do_ smell like someone's cologne and you _know_ it!"

"No, I'm just trying to figure out what you smell," her friend countered, her brows furrowing downward in an expression of confusion.

"Nice try, Emmy-lou," Penelope kept her maddening grin. However, she decided to end her friend's torture, giving a slight wave of dismissal as she made her way to her bedroom. "Keep your secrets, for now. Just know that you can't keep 'em forever—and certainly not from your best friend. I have rights, you know—the right to know who's getting a piece of that Prent-ass."

Now Emily gave something between a howl of laugher and a groan. "Oh my god, did you really just go there?"

"I did. And at some point, you're gonna have to tell me who else is currently going there—"

Emily opened her mouth to object, but Penelope stopped her, "No, don't even try to deny it, sweetheart. Just enjoy your last few days of anonymity with your strapping young man and succumb to the inevitable truth that Penelope Garcia knows all and that you will very soon confess all your dirty deeds to me."

"Right. Sure thing." Emily gave it her classic Prentiss flat-voiced sarcasm, complete with eyeroll.

"Although, somehow, I think maybe you aren't the type to go for strapping young things." Penelope squinted slightly, as if trying to conjure up a mental image. Her voice was slow, as if she were finding the answers as she went along, as if she were a psychic looking into a crystal ball. "Someone…more mature. A tall, handsome, stranger with dark hair and dark, brooding eyes…Someone who isn't a stranger at all. Someone who happens to wear the exact same cologne that you're wearing right now."

"This conversation is so over," Emily decreed, turning back around as if shutting out her best friend's commentary. She was on her feet, grabbing her go-bag out of its hiding place in the corner of Penelope's living room. "I need a shower."

Penelope gave a grandiose gesture towards the bathroom with one arm, still grinning psychotically. "Attempt to wash away whatever evidence you can, Emily dearest. The truth will stay written upon your face, as plain as day."

"It's a good thing I love you," her friend groused, moving past her with an air of mainly-feigned irritation.

The blonde's face lit up with mischievous glee as she threw one final volley toward Emily's retreating form, "Yes, but who else have you been lovin', Emmy dearest?"

* * *

Once the shower was turned on and the sound of Penelope's laughter had died away, Emily lost her sense of amusement and lost herself back into the darker thoughts that had dominated her drive back to the apartment. She'd endured Garcia's teasing because it had kept the rest at bay—the surging panic over her mistake with Linnea, the residual unsettling emotions from her discussion with Aaron, the guilt and fear and everything-else still swirling in her stomach and her brain.

Aaron had told her that it wasn't her fault, and she'd wanted to believe it. She'd called Mason Charles and spent a few minutes talking to him—Aaron had stood by her side the whole time, hand on the small of her back (and she'd lightly loathed herself for how much she'd needed that tiny measure of support). Once the call had ended, Aaron had held her close again, not speaking, just gently rocking back and forth as she'd kept her head burrowed into his shoulder. Time had stood still and in the stillness, she'd heard nothing but the gusts of his lungs and the steady beat of his pulse, her face pressed against his bare chest as her arms had held on for dear life.

But Aaron and the moment had gone, and the feelings she'd fought to contain had returned. Mason Charles had been distraught, but he hadn't blamed her—however, she knew it was there, unspoken but still just below the surface. She understood his need to blame someone else, the need for some kind of coping mechanism during what was probably the scariest moment of his life—and of course, she also felt the was blame was justly applied.

Aaron had tried to convince her otherwise, from his words to the pressure of his hands as he pulled her closer, to the way he'd kissed her whenever they'd finally said goodbye. Heaven help her, it only made her love him more.

That was the scariest part of it all. Admitting that she loved him wasn't that hard—they'd known that, long before their lips had ever uttered the phrase that their actions had so meticulously proven for years. She'd also known that she loved him selflessly—she'd never wanted him to wait for her, or even to lose Beth, because she'd put his well-being and happiness over her own desires, and there was something noble in that, she'd told herself.

The scary part was realizing that she loved him selfishly, too. She'd told him earlier that she'd been terrified at how easily she'd let the world burn, just to be with him, but the part she hadn't said, the part that was even more terrifying, was the realization that she would set the world on fire for him all over again. She'd die for him, _and_ kill for him, and it was the second part that brought the most fear.

Fear compounded by the certainty that she'd burn like this forever, without any hope of anything more than the few stolen moments they shared, fleeting flashes of respite instead of a steady-paced peace.

 _Emily, Emily. Nothing can ever be simple with you, can it?_ She turned her face to the ceiling, pressing her lips into a thin line as she contemplated the implications of her own realizations. True to her nature, she found herself wanting the one thing that she couldn't have.

But also true to her nature, she wasn't exactly planning to give up without a fight.

* * *

 _ **January 2005. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.**_

"So you're just going to call it quits, just like that?"

Maura Morrow let the accusation hang in the air, unbrushed by gentleness, full of incredulous rage. She kept her hands open, fingers spread apart, as if waiting to physically catch Agent Dorset's reply.

But Kaleb Dorset had no reply to give. Instead, he merely gave a longsuffering sigh, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes at this woman's theatrics. He certainly wouldn't miss this job assignment, not in the least, not even for a single second. It had been over a year since he'd been added to Dr. Morrow's protective detail, after the doctor began receiving death threats from some nut-job who thought her botching of the Amerithrax case warranted her imminent and painful demise.

Per usual, Dr. Morrow would not be deterred. She pushed past him, quickly traveling the length of her pristine marble-and-stainless-steel kitchen, disappearing into her home office and just as quickly returning with a handful of papers. He already knew what they were (after all, he'd spent hours studying them), but that did not prevent her from holding them directly in front of his nose.

"These people are threatening to kill me, Agent Dorset. They know where I live, they know what I look like—"

"Dr. Morrow, please." He kept his arms folded over his chest, but his muscles ached for the chance to grab her scrawny little wrist and break it before fully shoving her hand out of his face.

She pulled back, but only because she wanted to look him in the eye as she continued, "You haven't caught them, so far you haven't even made so much as a single arrest—"

"And all those arrests you made in the Amerithrax case, that really helped things along, didn't it?" He couldn't stop himself from pointing out.

The doctor went deathly pale for a full beat, and glorious silence reigned. He used the chance to remind her, "No one has been arrested, but no one has even made an actual attempt to harm you, either. And it's been three months since you've received a threatening note. Whoever your angry little pen-pal was, he must've either died or found someone more current to direct his anger towards."

"And you're willing to stake my life on that assumption." It wasn't a question, merely a statement. She bit back the addition that he'd probably dance on her grave—there had been no love lost between them since day one. Agent Dorset had made it crystal clear that babysitting Maura and her family was beneath his austere skill set. He was a cowboy, not a shepherd, and everything about him, from his overly-developed muscles to his hyper-masculine attire, screamed to that effect.

"Buy a gun," was his only advice. And really, it was the only safety measure that she didn't already have in place. The house had been refitted with the newest and best in home security systems, and a huge German Shepherd was currently snoring away in the living room, completely oblivious to the ruckus in the kitchen (most likely because he'd become quite accustomed to hearing those two raising their voices at each other).

Maura Morrow made a noise of derision at the statement. Kaleb Dorset merely smirked.

The back door opened, and a tumble of commotion erupted as the doctor's husband and four-year-old son entered the house.

Maura didn't miss the chance to shoot one last burning glare at Dorset, silently reminding him, _It's not just my life hanging in the balance here_.

"Everything alright?" Sean Morrow wore a smile, but his eyes still tinged with concern as they darted from his wife to the FBI agent.

"Agent Dorset just informed me that they're ending our protective detail," Maura informed him, crossing her arms over her chest. Her husband noticed the letters in her hand, and he immediately understood that she obviously didn't approve of this move.

"Why?" Sean turned his attention to Dorset, who fought back his usual wave of disgust for the man standing before him. Sean Morrow was a passive milquetoast who had no control over his polar opposite wife. That woman probably kept his balls in a box over the mantle.

"It's a waste of Bureau time and expenses," Dorset said curtly. "It's been decided that the threat is neither imminent nor probable."

There, he'd use big words, to placate the doctor. He had a college degree, too, after all.

"So, we're free? This guy really isn't a threat to us?" Sean looked hopeful, and no one could blame him—for over a year now, his life had been filled with men in dark suits, his wife's growing paranoia, and the helpless feeling of being watched every second of every day.

Maura made a noise which implied her disbelief in such a statement. However, Dorset gave a curt nod. "There hasn't been a letter in months, and we've never had an incident where anyone actually tried to harm your wife—the Bureau has decided you're in the clear."

 _And so am I_. Kaleb couldn't wait to leave this hellhole behind. He hadn't had any other assignments the entire thirteen months that he'd been on this case, and he was ready to get out into the field and do some real work. Maybe even transfer, go somewhere bigger like New York or Seattle or Quantico.

"Well, that's a relief," Sean was smiling now. His wife did not share his elation. Instead, she went back into her office with her letters.

Sean ignored her, turning back to call to their son, who'd gone into the living room to play with the dog. "Emmet! Come say goodbye to Agent Dorset."

The child came bounding back into the room, all smiles. He'd viewed all the FBI agents as superheroes during their time together, and given his charming personality, he'd quickly become the fan favorite among the agents. Though given his father's flatness and his mother's rough edges, being the best-liked family member wasn't exactly a herculean task.

Dorset gave a smile as he offered a high-five. He wasn't big on kids, but Emmet wasn't too bad. He felt sorry for the boy, growing up with such a bitch of a mother.

Speak of the devil herself—Maura was leaning against the doorframe of her office, watching them. She didn't offer any farewell. She merely plucked an invisible piece of lint from her pristine white blouse with such theatricality that Dorset got the message loud and clear.

 _Goodbye, and good riddance._

He returned a grim smile. _Feeling's mutual, lady._

He left the house, thankfully for the last time. His shift-partner, Vin, was waiting for him in a standard black Bureau SUV.

"How'd it go?" Vin asked with a wry smile. Dorset and Morrow's mutual disdain wasn't exactly a secret.

"As expected," Dorset offered with a sigh, slamming the car door shut. "She thinks we're making a mistake. Shrieking, fist-waving, the works."

"Well, maybe she ain't wrong," Vin shrugged as he put the vehicle in reverse and slid back down the smoothly paved drive. The Morrows lived in a subdivision, but there were expansive lawns and thick rows of trees between each house, giving it an air of seclusion in the middle of the city.

"Jesus Christ, just drive," Dorset growled. He and Vin had already discussed this, the entire time they'd driven out for the morning. Dorset was the lead on this detail, and even though he'd received support from their SAC, ultimately, the decision had been his. Vin had voiced his concerns, wanting to wait a few more months, just to make sure no more letters arrived, but he'd been overruled by the rest of the team, which was mainly comprised of up-and-coming young agents like Dorset, with higher ambitions and better things to do than play nursery maid to a paranoid woman.

As they drove away, Dorset took one last look at the stone house with its navy roof.

 _Goodbye, and good riddance._

* * *

" _Every ending is a beginning. We just don't know it at the time."_ _  
_ _~Mitch Albom._


	25. Setting the Board

**Setting the Board**

" _Such men as he be never at heart's ease_ _  
_ _Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,_ _  
_ _And therefore are they very dangerous."_ _  
_ _~William Shakespeare._

* * *

 _ **December 2012. New York City, New York.**_

Let it never be said that John Curtis wasn't a man of absolute cunning and calculation. Of course, Maura Morrow had already been fully aware of that long before she saw that familiar face at her latest book-signing, but his presence only exemplified it.

Of course he'd shown up in New York—the breeding ground of vengeance, the place where it all began. And of course he'd shown up around the holidays, when emotions were at their most vulnerable and coping with life in general was the hardest.

She'd also had two whole months to think about John's latest scheme—the secret he'd entrusted to her in the back of a dimly-lit bar, when he'd reminded her of just how much the Bureau had taken from her (not that she'd needed reminding, she never forgot, not even in her sleep).

At first, she felt a prickle of fear, struck with the thought that perhaps John had decided that she was no longer trustworthy, that perhaps he regretted telling her of his master plan and was now coming to tie up the loose end. However, she realized if that had been his plan, she never would have seen him at all, and here he was, standing at the back of the bookstore with his hands in his pockets, listening to her read and looking like the most ordinary man on the planet.

Then she felt a stirring of another emotion, one much harder to name, because it danced through stages like an uncertain moth, unsure of which flame to throw itself upon.

He wasn't here just to see how she was doing—neither of them lived in this city and he wasn't the type to "check in" on a friend. Hell, he wasn't even the type to have a friend.

Which meant there was only one reason for his presence that evening. The man had known exactly how to play his cards, and he did so beautifully. He'd given her time to mull it over, had even let the emotional sucker-punch of the holidays work their hellish magic, and then he'd appeared, like a beacon on a foggy night at sea. And despite knowing that all of this was just a cleverly crafted move on John's part, Maura also knew that once the evening was over, once the chapter was read, and the questions asked and answered, and the hands shook and books signed, she would accept his invitation to go for a walk or a drink or whatever else he might use to lure her off.

She was smart enough to realize that whatever happened next, it was inevitable. And it had been, from the moment he'd shaken her hand at the book signing in D.C. two months ago. She now understood that it hadn't been an ordinary handshake—it had been the sealing of her fate.

* * *

 _ **February 2015. The District Times Editorial Suite. Washington, D.C.**_

It was late by the time that Jack Dawson and Jessalyn Keller arrived, but the suite dedicated to the staff of _The District Times_ was just as active as if it were mid-afternoon. Phone rang, keyboards clicked, printers groaned and spit out sheets of paper, coffee permeated the air and several different news channels competed for attention on a bank of TV screens hoisted overhead.

"We're all night-owls," John Adams explained with a slight gesture towards the bullpen and an even slighter smile. "Capitol politics never sleeps, and neither do we."

Dawson merely nodded. He'd actually seen that quote, on a bulletin board on their way in. The paper's receptionist had given them directions to John Adams' office, but she must have buzzed him, because he'd met them halfway, anxious and eager to help (the latter being much appreciated).

"Jeez, how does anyone actually write anything around here?" Jess took in all the noise and distraction.

"There's always a work-from-home option, for those who prefer something a little more zen," Adams offered another smile. "Lucky for you, the security office is much quieter."

He led them out of the bullpen, back towards the front desk. They left the section of the building dedicated to the newspaper, taking an elevator to another floor, where Adams led them to the dark and quiet room reserved for the security team.

The night watchman was equally helpful—he already had the footage queued up and ready to go. He walked them through Linnea Charles' footsteps, showed them the section where the camera had been deliberately blacked out, and then finished with the footage of Linnea's car leaving the garage.

"But that's not Lin, I can guarantee you," John Adams spoke up for the first time since they'd arrived in the security office.

Jack Dawson gave a hum of agreement—the footage wasn't the best, but the general features didn't really match Linnea's.

The guard held up a disc, encased in a hard plastic sleeve, "I've got every angle in the garage, starting with Miss Charles' arrival—the blackout doesn't occur til after that—and ending an hour after her car leaves. And I've got every shot of security footage from the building that has her coming and going. It ain't too clear looking on this monitor, but last year, the DCPD had to take some footage for a case and they were able to clean it up with an image enhancement program—it cleans up nicely, I promise ya. Maybe you can get a better look at who took the car."

"Thank you," Dawson gratefully took the disc.

"Just hope you find the girl—alive and well," the guard stipulated. John Adams' face went white at the thought that it could end any other way.

Dawson's phone rang, and he glanced down to see that it was Jude. He excused himself, giving a quick nod towards Keller, silently instructing her to continue with follow-up questions.

He stepped out into the hall before he answered, "What's up, Jude?"

"Absolute mayhem," came the reply. Despite her dramatic words, her tone was flat and precise, "Mason Charles called me back a few minutes ago. I specifically instructed him _not_ to try and contact his wife or do anything out of the ordinary to alert whoever has her that we're onto them."

Dawson felt his stomach sinking, "Lemme guess: he didn't follow the rules."

"No. He set them on fire and then tossed them into the sea. Apparently, he began sending her texts—one after the other, begging her to respond. Then he called a few times, all culminating with him confessing to her that the FBI was looking for her and that she needed to call him back right away."

"Jesus H. Christ."

"We've lost whatever time we'd hoped to buy by not tipping our hand," she surmised dryly. Dawson heard a light shuffling in the background, then Jude switched gears. "However, our local boy scout over here just cracked the code that Dr. Reid was sending out."

"What's it say?"

"Curtis. Apprentice. Strauss too soon. Other plans."

"You think that's possible?" Dawson asked, although he was fairly certain of the answer—after all, he and Jude had thoroughly reviewed every aspect of the Replicator case, whenever they'd been on the post-action panel. But the hour was growing late and his certainty was beginning to wear thin.

"Absolutely. There was that case, the one in…oh, I can't remember where. But there is precedence," Jude reiterated, her tone filled with surety. "Which is why I think we shouldn't ignore this theory."

"Why didn't Reid just say so—why didn't he tell Jess?"

Judith Eden gave an amused hum. "We locked him up and kept him away from his team. Not exactly the prime foundation for trust and solidarity, Jackie boy."

"What a tangled web we weave," he sighed.

"Don't wax poetic on me, Dawson. It doesn't fit the mental image I try to keep of you."

"You don't think I'm poetic?"

"Sura's tried tracking Linnea Charles' phone again, but still no luck." Jude's deflection answered his previous question, and he grinned at her obvious attempt to switch the subject. "Not that we really expected anything less."

"Well, Keller and I are bringing back the security footage ASAP. Tell Sura that we'll need her to work her wonders with image enhancement."

"Will do, Guv."

He hung up and returned to the security office, where Jess was already saying her goodbyes and expressing her thanks to Adams and the night watchman. He noted the dark circles under her eyes and the barely-perceptible slump of her shoulders, and the way that her smile didn't quite light up her face like it usually did. She was wrung out, but valiantly trying to hide it.

Jack waited until they were alone in the elevator, on their way back to the parking garage, before he spoke. "As soon as we get back to Quantico, I want you to take one of the cars back to the hotel and get some sleep."

She nodded, not even arguing with his decree—a sure sign that she truly was exhausted.

"How ya feeling?" He asked quietly.

"Flat," was her response, and her tone matched the word.

"It's been a long day for all of us," he conceded. "I think I'll send Jude and Joe back, too. Sura and I can handle a few hours of watching video feed on our own, I think."

Again, Keller merely nodded. A thoughtful silence ensued as they made their way to the SUV and returned to the streets of D.C.

"What did Jude call about?" Keller finally broke the silence, her face and tone meticulously devoid of any kind of emotion.

"You were right. It was Morse Code that Dr. Reid was using—Joe was able to translate." Dawson took a deep breath before relaying the message.

"An apprentice," Keller murmured. "Well, that explains why it seems like a copycat with inside information on the Replicator case. We're thinking Fuller's the apprentice, right?"

"Perhaps. But there's still Dr. Morrow, who very well may be the _doctor_ and the _she_ referred to in Fuller's journals, plus Reid."

"Plus Reid," she agreed quietly.

* * *

 _ **December 2012. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.**_

John Curtis had to admit, he was slightly surprised that Maura had chosen to live in the same house, after everything that had happened. However, it only furthered his realization that he'd chosen well, whenever he'd decided to bring her into his plans. People who live constantly in the past are always the most likely to become bent on revenge.

He was currently installed at her kitchen table, quietly watching as she prepared tea—as long as he'd known her, she'd spoken in meticulously unaccented Standard American, but her English childhood still showed through in her personal habits, daily teatime being the main one. Even when they'd worked on the Amerithrax case, Dr. Morrow had always taken a break for tea.

"Now," she announced, curtly moving around the kitchen island to set two cups of tea on the table, installing herself in the chair adjacent to Curtis'. "I have one stipulation. Whatever we do, it has to involve Agent Kaleb Dorset."

"I can't guarantee that."

"Then I can't guarantee my assistance."

John Curtis fought down a wave of irritation as he simply stared at the woman seated in front of him. Maura's face was impassive, a clear testament that this was a deal-breaker. How quickly she'd forgotten that _he_ was the one in charge, that _she_ was the one who was replaceable! He stamped down his anger and simply made a tally in his mental accounts book—he'd make her pay for the slight, later, after her usefulness had run its course.

"What do you have in mind?" He asked, his eyes observing her with clinical scrutiny.

Maura shrugged elegantly. "I haven't a clue. But you're a smart man; I'm sure you'll find a way to make it work."

She'd redeemed herself, though only slightly. At least she was still acknowledging that he was the brains behind the operation—she wasn't charting off-course, but still letting him decide the hows and whys and whens and wheres of it all.

"We're going to need an inside man, at Quantico," Curtis informed her.

Maura's blonde brows quirked downward in concern. "Why can't you handle it yourself?"

"Because I'm in D.C. We need someone who can physically be inside Quantico, without arousing suspicion. Someone who's supposed to be there."

"The more people involved, the greater likelihood of a screw-up," she reminded him.

Curtis took a moment to sip his tea. "Which is why we have to choose carefully—someone who'd rather die than fail, and who'd never betray us."

The doctor's ice-blue eyes were wide. "That's a pretty tall order, Mr. Curtis."

He merely smiled, "It's easier than you'd think, Dr. Morrow."

* * *

 _ **April 2013. Alexandria, Virginia. (5 Miles South of D.C.)**_

John Curtis was right, as usual—although Maura Morrow wouldn't admit so aloud, not even under pain of death. Instead, she buried that little annoying realization and glanced over at the young man seated at the opposite end of her metal patio table. The early spring air was warm, already seeping with humidity, but she kept her scarf securely wrapped around her neck.

Not that it was entirely necessary anymore. It had been a week since Benjamin Fuller had seen her scars, accidentally.

And by _accidentally_ , of course, she meant _in an entirely deliberate move meant to seem accidental_ , which also applied to every single aspect of their relationship.

Shortly after her decision to fully join Curtis' scheme, Maura had returned to D.C. for another event—this time, instead of lecturing, she was merely giving a book-signing. Benjamin Fuller had been there again, and it was then that Curtis had noticed the boy's obvious devotion to her. Maura had balked at the idea of seduction, and she wouldn't have even let Curtis finish telling her of his plan until he'd thoroughly assured her that she wouldn't have to take such a path.

And again, he'd been right. Benjamin was so infatuated that merely being in her presence was enough. He acted as if thoughts of anything more simply didn't exist within his mind—and while she found it puzzling at times, she was also tremendously relieved. She'd never really cared for sex in general, but the idea of sex with someone so young and so adoring was even more unpleasant.

It had been a little harder, setting up a third meeting between her and Benjamin Fuller—at the time, she'd only known his first name and that he was a fan of her work, and everything had to look completely uncalculated on her part.

However, less than two weeks later, she'd been offered a chance to speak at another university in the District. She'd gladly accepted, and had made sure that her press agent had put notices in every possible source—her insistence paid off, because Benjamin found it, and subsequently found her again.

He'd come up to shake her hand again, after the lecture. She'd smiled widely in recognition, then had quickly drawn him in closer, whispering in his ear the lie that she'd rehearsed with Curtis—someone at the lecture was making her feel uncomfortable, would Benjamin mind waiting around and seeing her safely to her car?

Of course, he'd accepted, nodding and gravely casting a trained eye around the room. She'd forced the slightest wobble into her smile, making it seem as if she were quite afraid but bravely trying to mask it.

The sweet, gallant boy had swallowed hook, line, and sinker.

As they'd walked to her car, she'd asked questions—where was he from, what did he do? When he informed her that he worked for the FBI, she'd nearly jumped out of her skin. When Curtis had chosen Benjamin, neither one had known anything about him, other than he seemed a prime candidate for becoming a devoted and loyal assistant. Curtis had mentioned finding a way to get him into the Bureau, perhaps in an entry-level civilian position, in order to carry out their plans…but this was so much better than that! Could they really be that lucky?

The answer was yes. Oh, yes.

By the time they'd reached Maura's car, he was already grinning like a madcap, over the moon at the thought that no only had he engaged in such an in-depth conversation with his heroine, but that he'd also been able to step up as _her_ hero of the hour!

In a moment of sheer brilliance (at least in her opinion), she'd thanked him for his help, and then sheepishly asked he would mind just one more favor, which he'd granted instantaneously, before she even voiced it.

She'd asked him if he knew any good handymen in the area. She'd recently rented a house just outside the city and it was proving to need much more fixing up than she'd imagined—the first part wasn't a lie, but the second part was pure fabrication. She could find things to tamper with later on, to keep up her cover story.

Unsurprisingly, he'd offered to help. She'd feigned ecstatic surprise and gushing gratefulness, in turn, and the business of exchanging phone numbers had been a direct and natural result.

That had been a little over two months ago. He made trips to her house almost every weekend, and she kept inventing reasons to have him back again. After he'd finished whatever repairs that had magically sprung up over the week, she'd invite him to a cup of tea or a glass of lemonade, and they'd talk. He was rather intelligent, if wildly naïve, and although he certainly was a raging fanboy, he actually did like the science of her work and understood it well enough to hold a decent conversation on the subject (something her husband never attempted to do, though she never really faulted him for it).

Once she'd built up his trust, and was fully certain of his devotion, she'd let her scarf slip—the scars weren't the kind that didn't go unnoticed if they were out in the open, and Benjamin's eyes had widened with shock at their sudden appearance. She'd pretended to be flustered and embarrassed, and he'd kindly looked away, as if sensing that she didn't want them to be seen.

He might have averted his eyes, but his mind still played over the images, she knew. She could see the questions dancing at the corners of those inquisitive orbs, noticed the way he'd glance in her direction whenever he thought she wasn't looking.

He'd come back again this week to help with some lawn work, and they were currently taking a break to sip lemonade, both slouched into the unforgiving metal chairs on her back patio, each gazing ahead blankly into the hazy afternoon.

She didn't want to do this part. She had to, she knew that she did—it was the whole purpose of showing him the scars in the first place, and the final tie that could bind him to her, once it was shared. But the simple telling of her history brought scars, too, and there were few beings who rushed willingly into such pain.

"You can ask, you know," she said quietly, keeping her face turned ninety-degrees from his. She knew her ice-blue eyes often infused an intensity into her expressions that she didn't always intend, and she didn't want to spook him. Gently, she prompted, "The question that's on your mind, the one that's been rumbling around your brain since last week. You can ask, if you want to."

"I don't think it's my place to ask," he admitted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasping together. He looked at them, as if ashamed that she'd read his thoughts so easily.

"And I'm telling you that it is your place to ask." Now she turned to him, letting her eyes fully meet his. "You have the right to ask."

He didn't, not really. But granting him such a right was another step, another strand to weave the web around him, another pull to bring him further into the fantasy world that he'd undoubtedly concocted over the past few weeks, the fantasy world that she'd encouraged and collaborated in constructing.

"Ok," he leaned back again, as if preparing himself for the worst. Slowly, he drew out the words. "The scars…on your neck. Where did they come from?"

She told him the story of her scars. How they came to be, all the things that happened after, and who was responsible for every single twisted piece of it. The threats, the betrayals, the cover-up, all of it.

A heavy silence reigned afterwards. She sipped her lemonade; Benjamin stared at the ground in disbelief. She waited, knowing that his next words would be the final determining factor in whether or not he became a part of their plan.

"It's not right," he finally spoke, his voice still and low, yet still infused with a shaking sense of heartbroken rage. "What they did to you, it isn't right."

"It's how the world works," she said philosophically, portraying a sense of helpless acceptance that she certainly didn't feel. Her feline eyes were watching him intently now, dissecting every nuance of his body language. Each signal he gave was a tremor through the tightrope upon which she currently walked, and she couldn't afford to miss a single step.

"No, they should—someone has to be held accountable. People can't—you can't just play with people's lives like that and not face some kind of consequences." He was shaking his head vehemently now. She saw his hands tremble, too, and she knew that Curtis had chosen her mark well—this boy, this young man, this _child_ , so invested in every aspect of her world and her life, so distraught over an event he never witnessed nor could have prevented in a million years. He was so ardent and so true in his grief for her, it was both touching and disturbing.

"Benjamin, please," she was lowering her head, playing the card of demureness—the same woe-betided maiden routine that had gotten him to walk her to her car so many weeks ago.

"It's not right," he hissed again, becoming almost unrecognizable in his emotional distress. Over the past few weeks, Benjamin had shown himself to be quiet, at times even shy, retiring and unobtrusive. The man currently seated at her table was his polar opposite.

"But what can you do?" Now she looked up at him again, face lined with distress. Her words settled his anger slightly—she let a small pause further smooth over the upset edges before laying down the final piece of her so-carefully constructed net, repeating plaintively, "What can you do to make it right?"

He was quiet for a moment. Thoughtful, but not defeated.

And that's when she knew.

Benjamin Fuller was truly in. He would be with her, until the very end.

* * *

" _But what can be done, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves."_ _  
_ _~Mikhail Bulgakov_ _._

* * *

 ** _*Author's Note: A huge THANK YOU to everyone who has added, reviewed, etc so far-thanks for sharing the journey, and for sticking with me for this long.*_**


	26. A Turn in the Tide

**A Turn in the Tide**

" _There's nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even though we're not always wise enough to unravel the knowledge."_ _  
_ _~Ayn Rand_ _._

* * *

 _ **February 2015. FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

The Kills were rocking and rolling over the speakers as Sura Roza doctored yet another cup of coffee. Despite her recent declarations being off the addictive substance, the stress of the case and its inevitable long hours had sucked her back into the need for caffeine. Across the room, Jack Dawson watched his colleague sing along, hips shaking to the beat with the carelessness of a teen at a rave as she stirred in more creamer than could possibly be healthy for any human being. He smiled wryly at the picture—Sura wasn't exactly known as the cuddliest kitten in the basket, but she had her moments when she was utterly endearing.

She must have sensed him watching, because she said, "You should get up and dance, too. Good for your blood flow, helps the creative process, all that jazz."

"I'm good, thanks," he returned dryly. He held up a manila folder, whose contents included the BAU's encounter with Donnie Bidwell, the man John Curtis had used as a proxy killer. "Besides, this doesn't require much of a creative process."

"Hm. That kind of thinking will only lead to dead ends," she informed him, stopping her be-bopping to sample her coffee. She gave a curt nod of self-approval before heading back to the desk. "Crime-solving is a creative thinking process. It has to be."

"Not always," he glanced back down at the file in his hands.

She ignored his rebuttal, taking a moment to glance at her computer, which was currently rendering the security footage that they'd gotten from _The District Times_.

"Hey, wanna play a game?" She changed the subject easily.

"Every time I play a game with you, I end up losing money."

"Not always."

"You're right—last time I ended up losing my seats at the Sprint Cup."

"Yes, but you gave them up with a grace that was the very epitome of good sportsmanship."

"Write that on a sticky-note, Sura. I want that on my tombstone— _he was a gracious loser_."

She chuckled at the quip, shaking her head slightly. Her computer blurbled in notification, and she sat up, suddenly on-alert.

"Enhancement's done," she announced. She leaned forward, clicking through a few frames of the footage. "So the car's plates are definitely Linnea's…but the driver's face isn't. I'll have to run it through a facial recognition program, see if we can get a hit."

"The driver definitely isn't Linnea?" Jack was on his feet now, moving around the desk to look at the computer screen. One look answered his question—and also answered another.

"You don't have to run the face through any programs, Sura," he informed her gravely.

"What? You recognize her?" Sura looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Yeah. I've seen that face a couple of times today." His lips set in a thin line as a sudden dread settled into his bones.

He'd seen it on the back of a burned book, a Wikipedia page, a newspaper article—and now, Maura Morrow's face shone from the computer screen like a beacon, as unmistakable as ever.

However, Jack didn't feel as if the mystery had finally been solved. He had the unshakable and equally unwelcome feeling that they were only just beginning.

* * *

 _ **FBI Evidence Lab, Main Building.**_

Adelaide Macaraeg stretched her arms overhead, her lower back giving a twinge of protest as she arched, not-so-gently reminding her that she'd spent way too much time slouched in chairs and diner booths and airplane seats over the past twenty-four hours.

"I think it's time to call it a night," she announced. She didn't have to glance at a clock to know that it was already late, and they'd definitely put in well over a twelve-hour day. Jeff Masterson tossed a notebook back onto the table in silent agreement, and Rowena Lewis rubbed her eyes wearily, not even caring that her mascara stayed behind in the creases beneath them, making her look even more tired.

Mac still wasn't ready to get to her feet, so she gently pulled another piece of paper towards herself—the sheet on which Masterson kept a running tally of Fuller's co-conspirators. In the beginning, the number of mentions for each moniker ( _she, doctor, Reid_ ) were pretty even, but now there was a noticeable discrepancy.

"When's the last time either one of you came across a mention of Reid?" She asked, frowning slightly.

Jeff and Roe glanced at each other, frowning as well.

"It's…been awhile," Masterson admitted, although he hadn't realized it until now.

"Yeah," Roe looked over at the notebook she'd been reading, as if accusing it of something. "You know, I'm not sure he's been mentioned at all in this journal."

" _She_ and _the doctor_ have definitely become the fan favorites," Mac held up the sheet to further make her point.

"And if Dawson's right and those two are the same person, then doctor-she has to be involved," Masterson nodded towards the paper. "I'd say that's our co-conspirator, right there."

Lewis made a noise of agreement, rising to her feet and crossing the room to grab their coats.

Mac returned her attention to the sheet, the lines of her face still furrowed in confusion and concern.

If the doctor was the co-conspirator, then who was Reid? And why did he suddenly disappear from the narrative?

* * *

 _ **May 2013. John Curtis' House. Outside D.C. City Limits.**_

"This isn't going to work."

Good grief, Maura was being particularly mulish today. John Curtis flicked his eyes heavenward, the facsimile of an eye-roll, and held his breath for a beat, reminding himself to stay calm. Of course she didn't understand—on so many levels, she never truly did, and never truly would. She was a tool, and tools didn't always have to comprehend their own functions in order to actually perform them.

"It _will_ work," he reiterated, turning back to her with a level of neutral calm that he didn't truly feel. Sometimes it was like trying to explain nuclear physics to a child—a petulant child who didn't want to believe it existed, much less learn how it worked. "It will work because he trusts you, implicitly. That's what these last few months have been about. The man suggested attacking federal agents for you—he's already on-board, Maura. He's ready to run, we just have to set him on the right track and let him go. The rest will take care of itself."

"What do you mean, exactly?" Now Maura blanched, and with a flash of fear, John realized that she might harbor some kind of affection for Benjamin Fuller. The fear muted to anger as John inwardly cursed himself for being stupid enough to think that this could go off without _some_ kind of complication.

"You're not going to let him plan this whole thing on his own, are you?" Maura leaned forward, her hands flat on the kitchen table. "He's a follower, John, not a leader—he hasn't got the brains, the initiative—he'll get caught before he even begins!"

John's anger instantly melted. So she wasn't concerned for Fuller's well-being—she was worried that he'd ruin their carefully-crafted revenge, if left to his own devices. He couldn't help but smile at the thought that perhaps Maura truly had been the best partner for this task. She certainly possessed a sense of ruthlessness that was necessary for the work.

"Which is exactly where I come in," he reminded her, no longer frustrated at her inability to understand. "I'll speak to him, lay out all the groundwork for him, so that all he has to do is follow my instructions. He won't be able to mess it up—he'll be too focused on making sure every little detail is perfect, because he'd rather die than disappoint you, my dear."

The _dear_ was sarcastic, and she felt it. Despite the fact that John had promised her that she wouldn't have to physically seduce Fuller, Maura had realized that her relationship with the young fan had certainly turned into a psychological seduction, a careful cultivation of his thoughts and actions so that all parts of his life were turned to her. _Grooming_ was the word that came to mind, the phrase generally applied to pedophiles and their prey, and not exactly the kind of association that left a pleasant taste in her mouth. Sure, Benjamin was a full-grown adult, and Maura had never even stepped up to the line of impropriety, much less crossed it, but physical inaction didn't change what this was, on a psycho-emotional level. And John wasn't above making her remember this, and finding ways to make her feel whorish without ever actually uttering the accusation.

"It still won't work," she shook her head, funneling her anger at his treatment of her into actual concern for the plan. "He's going to meet you, and he'll remember your face. He followed the Amerithrax case in high school—religiously. What makes you think that he won't recognize you?"

"Because he's never going to see my face."

Maura suddenly understood—and she also understood that this put her in the more vulnerable position. John watched her face as the pieces clicked into place in her mind.

"So…if anything happens…he won't have any way to actually identify you," she was speaking slowly now, fully aware of just how dangerous the terrain had become. "He'll know my face and my name and everything about me, but you'll just be some disembodied spirit, some figment of his imagination—and mine."

She got it now, John thought smugly. She realized her place in the scheme.

However, her lips hardened into a thin line and she merely looked up at him, her intense blue eyes screaming everything that her mouth couldn't even whisper. _If I go down, you're going down with me. He might not know who you are, but I do, and I'll shout it to the rooftops, if they take me in._

Ah, he'd forgotten that Maura didn't have much to lose—only her life and her freedom, which didn't seem like much when confronted with a chance for vengeance. That made her more dangerous.

John made a mental note to make sure that if things got out of hand and their cover was blown, he'd have to find a way to end Maura before the FBI arrested her—before she could talk and give away his identity.

However, right now he merely gave a reassuring smile, "Maura, nothing's going to happen. We've worked too hard and been too careful—it'll all end exactly as it should."

She nodded, looking away. Worry and doubt had begun to creep in, deadlier than any other threat their operation could face.

"Here," he turned around, pulling a prepaid cellphone from the bag that had been laying on his kitchen counter. He set it on the table, right in front of her. "It has only one number saved in it—that's the number you use to contact me. Fuller will follow your lead. If you show that you're confident in me and my abilities, he'll trust me as well. He'll need a little prodding at first—he won't want to give up the idea of being your white knight and relinquish the planning aspect to me, but if you play it right, he'll fold easily enough."

Maura nodded, delicately taking the phone into her hand with a gracefulness that suddenly made John Curtis see exactly how a young boy like Benjamin Fuller could become enamored with her.

"One last thing," he felt another surge of gleefulness. She looked up at him, cautious and uncertain. He leaned in, almost conspiratorially, as if they were just playing a grand game of make-believe. "When you're with him, refer to me as Agent Reid. Agent. Reid."

"Why?" Her brows quirked downward in confusion. By now, she was fully aware that John did nothing without definitive reason, so she knew that there had to be some kind of meaning behind that particular name, although she wasn't sure what.

He was smiling again, self-satisfied and patronizing. "Remember, you're not the only one who's getting a stab at revenge."

"Right," she gave a small nod. "Agent Reid."

* * *

 _ **Maura's Rental House. Alexandria, Virginia.**_

Maura Morrow wasn't one to say _I told you so_ , which was fortunate for John Curtis—because just as she'd predicted, Benjamin balked at the idea of bringing a third person into their plans. Not that she entirely blamed him. Benjamin's biggest (or at least his most vocal) concern was that Agent Reid refused to meet in person.

However, Curtis had been right, too. Maura had been able to persuade Benjamin to agree to a phone call, fervently promising that she trusted Agent Reid with her life (and yes, she did notice the flicker of jealousy in the younger man's eyes, which she just as quickly ignored). He'd finally acquiesced, though his facial expression throughout the phone conversation with Curtis/Reid was a clear indication of how unpleasant he found the whole thing. Maura had simply kept her gaze locked on him, offering small, reassuring smiles whenever he looked her way, remembering to soften her eyes and infuse a sense of pleased adoration in them that she didn't really feel. That had done the trick—by now, she'd learned that Benjamin would do anything, just to elicit that response from her.

Afterwards, he quietly told her, "I still don't trust this guy. This…what we're trying to do here, it's dangerous, Dr. Morrow. The less people we involve the better—and the less people we trust, the safer we'll be."

She nodded in grave agreement. He continued, obviously trying to make up for upsetting her with his stance on the matter, "I'm sure he's a good guy, and I'm sure he could help us—but how can we know for sure? How can we trust a man who won't show his face?"

"It's for your safety, just as much as his," she pointed out. "I'm the only link between the two of you. If something happens, the only person he can implicate is me. You'll be safe."

Of course, she knew that keeping Benjamin safe was the last thought on Curtis' mind—the fail-safe had been put in place to protect John, not Benjamin.

"I don't need to be safe," Benjamin leaned forward, his eyes shining earnestly. Maura heard the unspoken end to that statement: _Don't you get it? I'll die for you, if need be._

She pushed down another wave of guilt and channeled her apprehension into her performance. "Benjamin, do you trust me?"

That question, like those glacial eyes, pierced him to the heart.

"Of course," he felt the air escape his lungs. "Of course I trust you."

She stepped forward, lightly placing her hand on his chest. "Then trust me—trust me when I say that we need this man's help. I want those people to pay for what they've done, but I don't want losing you to be part of the cost."

He nodded, a tiny, quick movement of his head. She held out her hand, and he placed the prepaid cellphone back in her palm. Her face blossomed into a smile again.

"Let's have some tea, shall we?" She moved away, flitting around the kitchen with her usual airy grace that easily matched the lyrical style of her writing, a parallel that had always amused and entranced him.

That was the first time that she'd ever physically touched him, he realized, lightly placing his hand over the spot where her hand had been, just moments before.

* * *

 _ **Benjamin Fuller's House, Rural Virginia.**_

Despite his full faith in Dr. Morrow, Benjamin Fuller still didn't trust this Reid character. The man was an agent at the Bureau, with plenty of insider information—or so he claimed. Benjamin searched for every mention of an Agent Reid at the FBI he could find online, but the results were scattered. Reid had said that he'd once worked at Quantico, but he'd failed to mention where he was currently stationed. Benjamin had noted the number that Dr. Morrow had dialed on the burner phone—its area code was in Texas, but that didn't mean anything, since anyone could get a redirect number through Google Voice with any area code they wanted.

This Agent Reid might be smart, but he didn't have Maura's best interests at heart. Benjamin could sense that. He also sensed that he shouldn't trust the man, no matter what Maura said. Someone had to be the voice of caution and reason—he'd play Reid's game until he knew for sure what the man's angle was. Then he'd prove to Dr. Morrow that he and he alone was the man who could help her, the one who could complete this mission for her.

He'd be her hero again—and she'd look at him again, like she did that night when he walked her to her car, and that sunny afternoon when he first told her that he would right all the wrongs that those people did to her.

Once Benjamin returned home, he went into his study and found a notebook, tearing out the few pages that had writing on them (plans for raised flower boxes for Dr. Morrow's garden—a task he'd complete, later on). He sat down at his desk and began writing.

If the time came, he'd have undeniable proof that Agent Reid was linked to all of this. He hoped he wouldn't need such insurance, but he wasn't willing to put his or, more importantly, Maura's life at stake.

And perhaps, if he were honest, he wanted proof that this had all been his idea. That he'd been the one to save Maura Morrow, the one who helped her plot revenge and find peace afterwards, the one who'd been her confidant and her defender.

He wouldn't write her name down—it was too damning, and in a way, it seemed almost profane, to use her name in a document that was meant for another man's downfall. He wouldn't sully her like that.

But Reid was fair game.

Benjamin started from the beginning, finding a sense of catharsis and comfort in chronicling the past few weeks with the doctor. He stayed up long into the night, recapturing it all. He kept his personal feelings, both for Morrow and Reid, out of it—he hoped these scribblings never saw the light of day, but if they did, he didn't want anything too personal in there.

He ended with the day's phone call to Agent Reid. And with a smug sense of satisfaction, he boldly printed the name across the paper.

Benjamin truly did believe that Dr. Morrow wasn't letting them meet face-to-face in order to protect him. But he also knew that he didn't need protecting. He'd gladly admit the truth, gladly stand next to her and scream in defiance at their captors. However, he knew, just as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the east, that Agent Reid would not be so steadfast. If things went sideways, he'd try to distance himself from them, he'd prove his unworthiness to the doctor and to her cause.

But Benjamin had corrected that, with the simple stroke of a pen. No one would betray his beloved doctor again, not without consequence, and not as long as Benjamin Fuller had breath in his lungs.

 _Try to wiggle out of this one, Agent Reid._

* * *

" _Could be a nail in my coffin and I don't need another one_ _  
_ _Could be a nail in my coffin and Lord knows I ain't ready yet_ _  
_ _Could be a line I'm crossing and I am never gonna get back from."_

 _~The Kills._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: Just FYI, I'm sticking with the original timeline I created in Pay the Piper, which has Curtis' death in mid-June 2013.**_

 _ **Also, I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update—a few weeks ago, I fell and severely injured my wrist (Wanna good laugh? It happened while getting out of a freaking sandbox—yeah, twelve years as a classically trained ballerina, and this is as graceful as I get…) and unfortunately, typing became an issue. But I'm well on the road to recovery, and we're back on track—with four new chapters! As always, thanks for your patience, your reviews/adds/etc, and most importantly, for sharing this crazy ride with me. Onward we go!***_


	27. And My Heart Goes Boom

**And My Heart Goes Boom**

" _Quiet your heart, it's just a dream. Go back to sleep—I'll be right here._ _  
_ _I'll stay awake as long as you need me to slay all the dragons_ _  
_ _and keep out the monsters—I'm watching over you."_

 _~JJ Heller._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: This first section contains references to UNSUBs from the following episodes: Ian Doyle from the Lauren arc (season 6), Benjamin Cyrus from Minimal Loss (4.3), and Joe Smith from In Name and Blood (3.2).***_

* * *

 _ **February 2015. Penelope Garcia's Apartment.**_

Emily Prentiss wasn't always grateful for the fact that she was an extremely light sleeper, but this was certainly a time when it came in handy. After her soul-searching shower, she'd made herself comfortable on Penelope's couch (smiling softly at the thought that this wasn't the first time she'd slept on this couch, although this might be the first time that she'd crashed here stone-cold sober). The door to Penelope's bedroom had been left ajar, but from the darkness and silence, Emily had guessed that her friend had already fallen asleep.

Except now that sleep sounded less than restful. Even from her place in the next room, Emily could hear Penelope's worried mumblings and small twitterings of fear and confusion. A pang of sympathy pierced her chest when she fully realized that Penelope was having a nightmare—or more likely, reliving one. How many times had Emily woken up in a cold-sweat, heart pounding and body paralyzed with the thought that Doyle was in the very room, ready to take his final revenge, or that Benjamin Cyrus was standing over her bed, reaching to throw her into a plate of glass again, or that Joe Smith was coming for her with a two-by-four, this time more determined to finish the job? Those nights had become fewer and fewer, over the years, but that didn't make her memory of them any less vivid.

She quietly padded on bare feet through the darkness, easily navigating the landscape of Penelope's home without the aid of sight (and silently thanking her friend for not changing the layout of her furniture in the past year). She didn't hesitate, slipping onto the bed and wrapping her arms around the blonde, whose twitching and mumbling stopped the instant that she made contact.

There were a few beats of groggy silence as Penelope Garcia returned to a semi-conscious state, sleepily mumbling, "Em?"

"Yeah, it's me. Go back to sleep. It was just a dream."

There was another incoherent mumble as Penelope easily tumbled back into sleep. Emily found herself smiling—she'd wager good money that come morning, her friend would have no recollection of this whatsoever.

Penelope didn't slip back into her nightmare—Emily could tell by the easy cadence of her breathing, the peaceful stillness of her limbs, the quietness that followed. With another small smile, she curled herself around her friend, closing her eyes and returning to sleep as well.

Emily's mind bubbled through thoughts as she drifted towards the haze of dreams, images and feelings popping before they were fully formed, drifting lazily upwards as she sank further down, like Alice in the rabbit hole.

They both deserved more than this—they both deserved someone who slept beside them every night, who witness every fleeting fear and who soothed it away with ease and care.

 _Aaron deserves that, too. No one should have to wake up alone, not when their dreams are dark and their reality's even darker._

* * *

 _ **Superior Suites. Dumfries, Virginia.**_

Jessalyn Keller was wrenched back into consciousness, her brain muddled by the jarring sound of her cellphone ringing. She reached forward, grimacing slightly as her hand helplessly scuttled across the top of the nightstand—she'd fallen asleep on her arm and now it was half-numb and nearly useless.

She also realized, with a jolt of heart-breaking clarity, that she was utterly alone. She'd fallen asleep fully aware of her solitude, but she had to admit, she'd expected to wake up to find Jude's warm body curled up next to her own.

Dawson glowed across her screen, and she squinted slightly at the sudden brightness before answering, "Hey, what's up?"

"Sura ran the security video footage through an image enhancement program. You'll never guess who's driving Linnea Charles' car—Maura Morrow, the linguist from the Amerithrax case."

"Holy shit, Jack, you've gotta be kidding." Jess was fully awake now, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed so that she was seated upright.

"We've got it all on tape—Sura found where she drove in, with her own vehicle, _after_ she apparently entered the parking garage on foot to block the camera. We've also got clear shots of her leaving the parking garage shortly after Linnea Charles was last seen on camera—and coming back again on foot, and exiting again in Linnea's car."

"She went through all the trouble of blocking the camera—why didn't she think about all the others?" Jess wondered.

"I think her main concern was not having a security guard notice her kidnapping Linnea and reporting it immediately—or coming to stop her. Covering all the cameras wouldn't have been feasible or practical—one camera out is a maintenance issue, but all of them out is a clear sign of something being up."

"So, are we putting out an APB for her car and Linnea's?"

"It's already out. But it gets better—apparently, Dr. Morrow has a rental property in Alexandria."

"I'm on my way." Jess was already wiggling back into her jeans, frantically glancing around for the rest of her clothes.

"I've already talked to Jude, she's up and at 'em, too. I'm calling Joe next, the three of you can head straight there. O'Donnell's getting the SWAT team together, we'll leave as soon as possible and meet you there. You'll beat us there, but don't make a move until we're all in place."

"Got it, sir." Jess hung up and flurried through the rest of her dressing.

As she opened the door to hotel room, she saw Jude barrel past, barely checking her stride to whirl around and announce, "We've got vests in the back of the SUV. Jack sent me the location—"

"I'm ready," Jonas' door swung open, his voice pitched with adrenaline. He was still on the phone with Dawson—he quickly informed their unit chief, "We're on the way now. Jude's driving, so we should be there in a flash."

The Englishwoman gave a wry smile, but it was gone like quicksilver—much like its owner, who was already racing down the hall. Jess and Jonas followed, giving each other quick glances of reassurance.

"Just another day in paradise," Shostakovich murmured, his calm, low tone completely at-odds with their hurried pace.

"Yeah, so far, it's been a real cakewalk," she returned dryly.

Her teammate chuckled.

By the time they reached the front door, Judith Eden had already gotten the Bureau SUV and wheeled it around to the portico, her big brown eyes even wider with impatience and sheer nerves.

"Please, enjoy your Sunday stroll," she drawled, feigning a sense of snarky calm that she certainly didn't feel.

"It's four o'clock in the morning," her beloved Vichie informed her as he climbed into the front passenger seat. "Some of us aren't as spry as we used to be."

The doors had barely closed before Jude slammed the car into gear and took off.

No one spoke during the ride, and every time the automated voice of the GPS system issued a command, her voice seemed to surprise everyone with its volume and shrillness.

They ended up on a winding road in a quiet neighborhood. Jonas thankfully noted that the nearest neighboring house was a good three hundred feet away. Jude had turned off the red-and-blue flashers earlier, making sure their approach to the house wasn't quite so noticeable—there wasn't any need to alert Dr. Morrow to their presence quite yet.

Jude parked about a hundred feet from the house, per protocol, and they all got out, moving around to the back of the vehicle to don their vests, slipping the standard Bureau windbreakers over them. They all checked their handguns again, a protocol-induced habit that gave them some measure of reassurance.

Another inky-black SUV rolled up, and Jonas went over to meet it. Jess hung back, waiting for Jude, who was currently propping her foot up on the bumper and retying her shoelaces.

Jessalyn Keller was fully aware of how inappropriate and how ill-timed her next words were, but she couldn't stop herself from quietly stating, "You didn't come to my room."

"No, I didn't," Jude kept her gaze focused on her shoe, as if tying knots had suddenly become rocket science. After a light beat, she added, "I've learned from experience not to go where I'm not wanted."

The younger woman felt a stab of regret—she'd been sullen and petulant around Jude the rest of the evening, after their little hallway spat, but she'd never meant to make Jude question where she stood, in terms of their relationship.

"I—you're never not wanted, not with me," Jess kept her voice low, keenly aware of the dozen other agents who'd arrived right behind Dawson.

Jude dipped her head lower, as if suddenly exhausted. Then she stood straight, bringing her foot back to the ground. Finally, she looked at Jess, her face lined with fatigue. "We would've fought. And my darling, I am too tired and too heartbroken to fight with you."

And despite the dozen other agents, Judith Eden reached out and lightly squeezed Jessalyn's hand, her voice tight with emotion as she quietly added, "You frighten me sometimes, love. You say things…and I think, this is it, I'm losing you, and it frightens me, more than anything else ever has. It's absolutely debilitating, the kind of fear I feel when you turn away from me. And I'm so afraid of making things worse, I can't…I just can't."

Tears swelled in Jessalyn's eyes and clenched her throat, but she found the breath to simply say, "You have nothing to fear, Jude. Nothing at all."

She was still holding on to Jude's hand, squeezing it for dear life. She took it for the gift it was meant to be—Jude's way of proving that she cared more about her than about other people's opinions, the small measure of assurance that Jess had wanted for so long.

Now Jude was smiling, in the shy, shining way that had first taught Jess' heart to flip-flop like a fish out of water, and Jess couldn't have cared less if anyone saw how this woman made her grin like a fool in turn (though she stopped just shy of reaching out and kissing her).

There was a shuffle of feet as Jonas Shostakovich tried to announce his arrival as blatantly as possible.

"Yeah?" Jude pulled her hand away from Jessalyn's again, easily blinking back the tears that had been at the corners of her eyes.

"SWAT's gonna take the lead," he informed them. "The car's in the driveway, so we have to act as if Morrow's home."

The two women nodded in agreement. It was a long shot, the idea that Morrow had kidnapped a woman and then hung around town, but the ghost of a chance still held enough hope and apprehension to infuse the situation with intensity. Jonas hurried towards the house, where Dawson was already setting up a perimeter with O'Donnell, and the SWAT team was swiftly and silently assembling. They followed, guns ready and hearts revving up with adrenaline once more.

"You think she'll come easily?" Jess asked.

"I don't know. It's only our first date—but I'll find out soon enough." In true Judith Eden fashion, the woman gave a wicked grin and a knowing wink—a total show of false bravado, but it made her partner laugh.

Jesus. Only Judith Eden could turn a question about apprehending a terrorism suspect into a sex joke.

"Don't get too friendly," Jess reminded her, playing along. "You happen to have a very jealous girlfriend."

"Oh, do I?" Now Jude's eyes were twinkling with mischief.

"Yes, you do." Jess transferred her gun to her right hand, freeing up her left to gently brush against Jude's hip, a silent affirmation of her possessiveness that made the older woman bite back a girlish grin.

However, Jess became slightly more serious, her gaze fixed on the dark house ahead of them as she quietly added, "And I meant what I said earlier."

"About what?" Jude was genuinely confused.

"All of it. You won't ever lose me, and I'll never not want you beside me, no matter what we've said or done." She wished that she knew a more eloquent way to say it, but there it was, unvarnished and entirely true. "I want you always. I love you, even when I don't like you."

Judith gave an amused hum at that last part. "Well, I love you even when I don't like you, too, Agent Keller."

"Good." Jess gave a curt nod. "So it looks like we're stuck together."

"Yep," Jude drawled, her tone laced with equal parts amusement and affection. "Looks like it."

They had finally reached the perimeter, where Dawson, O'Donnell, and Shostakovich stood, all focused on Maura Morrow's house. Smiles and all other thoughts were quickly dropped as they returned to the world of the chase, veins humming with possibility and perturbation.

There was a solid crack as the SWAT team took out the front door. The house's interior became a rave, flashlights bouncing and moving from room to room.

"All clear," came the news, crackling over the radio.

Dawson gave a frustrated sigh. He'd always known that there was a good chance that Maura Morrow had already flown the coop, but he couldn't deny that he'd nursed the hope that she'd still be here.

"Well, Guv, can't win 'em all," Judith Eden was already tucking her gun into her holster, readjusting her windbreaker so that the weapon was still easily accessible.

"I'd just like to win _one_ ," he informed her drolly. "Is that too much to ask?"

"Apparently, it is," Jonas sighed, moving forward to enter the front door, which was now barely on its hinges, thanks to the battering ram.

Dawson turned to Jess, "Call Sura."

To O'Donnell, he announced, "I'll have our analyst look into any other properties with Morrow's or Fuller's names. Morrow's credit cards haven't been used in over 48 hours, and she isn't listed on any flight manifests, so she has to be in the area."

Jess gave a slight nod, understanding that his statement to the Quantico SAC was also her instructions for Sura. She turned away from the house, slipping her phone out of her back pocket.

"She's had a twenty-four hour headstart," O'Donnell pointed out. "You can make a lot of miles in a good car with that."

Dawson's grim expression implied that he'd full-well considered such a thing, and wasn't pleased by the thought in the least.

"Speaking of cars," Judith was moving towards the garage, which was opened to reveal Dr. Morrow's SUV. She raised her voice, turning towards the house. "Hey, Vichie, see if you can find the keys to the car. We need to see if there's any trace of Linnea Charles in here."

A noise came from the house that sounded as if Vichie were agreeing to her request, and Jude stalked over to the garage, her long legs easily covering the distance of frost-covered lawn.

Out of sheer force of habit, Jude reached forward, testing the SUV's back latch to see if the car was already unlocked.

The second that she fully pulled at the latch, she knew something was wrong. She took a step back, but the SUV's back hatch was already moving upwards, pulling at whatever trigger had been set. She sensed the wire before she actually heard it, and she bolted, knowing it was a lost cause all the same.

From the perimeter, Jude's sudden flash of movement caught Dawson's eye, and he looked over, just as flames ruptured from Morrow's SUV.

The explosion was dull, odd sounding, self-contained. Jessalyn's head whipped back towards the house, her heart and blood stopping as her stomach dropped and her lungs seized with a single word.

"Jude."

She was certain that she'd whispered it, but if you asked anyone else, they'd tell you that she was shrieking at the top of her lungs.

* * *

" _When I´m with you baby, my whole world starts to bloom_ _  
_ _All I ever want to do is to spend my time with you_ _  
_ _My heart goes boom boom boom…  
And my heart goes boom boom boom."_

 _~Miss Li._ _  
_


	28. Revelations

**Revelations**

" _Can a man embrace fire and his clothes not be burned? Can a man walk on burning coals without scorching his feet?"  
~Proverbs 6:27-28, HSCV._

* * *

 _ **Maura's Rental House. Alexandria, Virginia.**_

Jonas Shostakovich felt every bone in his body jar as he jogged up the front steps of Maura Morrow's house, suddenly feeling heavy and tired as the adrenaline spike in his veins subsided. Part of him knew that this was exactly how this particular night would end—Dr. Morrow had been clever enough to evade implication and capture so far, why would they expect her to be lounging around in plain sight, just waiting for them to grab her? Still, his foresight hadn't ebbed the tide of disappointment.

From outside, he heard Jude's voice calling to him. "Hey, Vichie, see if you can find the keys to the car. We need to see if there's any trace of Linnea Charles in here."

"You got it," Jonas Shostakovich yelled back, moving from the living room back into the front foyer, glancing around—people usually discarded their keys within fifteen feet of their house's main entrance, and the way Maura left the garage open implied that she'd come up the walk and through the front door.

True to form, the keys were on a key-rack just past the door. There were a few other sets of keys, but the actual car key was unmistakable. He slipped it off the hook and headed back outside.

Everything that happened next was merely a series of sounds. A rush of wind. A boom. The house itself rattling on its frame slightly, as if a gust of wind had blown through. Jess shrieking Jude's name. It all happened within milliseconds, before he could even move.

However Jonas quickly remedied that, bolting out the front door, his eyes wide with shock as he took in the scene. Jude's long, slender form was crumpled across the driveway, looking so much smaller than he'd ever seen. Jessalyn was already at her side, patting down a few errant flames that licked up her leg and across her arm—but doing so with her bare hands. Dawson and O'Donnell were rushing over, trying to help, and the SWAT team was busy trying to secure the area.

He knew he was running, but he couldn't feel a thing—it was like he floated over to the huddle of people.

He heard himself calling her name, asking Jess if she was alright.

"I-I-I don't know," the younger woman stuttered, her hands fluttering over Jude's body. They were blackened from soot and already shining with dark liquid, but she didn't seem to register the obvious pain. "She—I just—she's not responding."

"She hit her head on the pavement," O'Donnell informed them, gently pulling Jessalyn's hands back. "The boom blew her back, she hit, head and shoulders first—don't try to move her, there could be spinal damage."

From his vantage point, Jonas could see the blood trickling from Jude's ears. Apparently Jess noticed, too, because she gave a strangled noise of panicked dismay as her hand reached forward, towards Jude's face once more. However, she pulled back, stopping herself and trying to heed O'Donnell's warning.

"The EMTs are en route," Dawson spoke up. Two SWAT members appeared with shields, setting them up to protect against any further blasts from the garage.

"This site isn't secure—we need to fall back, fast!" One SWAT member yelled, his voice hoarse with adrenaline.

"We can't move her," Jonas said, moving around to Jude's left side. He gently took her hand between his own, frightened by how heavy and lifeless it felt.

The night air filled with siren wails, and Jess made an animalistic sound of relief, looking around wildly for any sign of their salvation.

"It's gonna be OK, Jude," Jonas reassured his friend, whose eyes were still closed (he told himself it was a better sign than if they were open and devoid of light). "Just hang in there."

He glanced up at Jess, whose face was ripped by fear and helplessness, making sure she fully met his gaze as he quietly repeated, "It's gonna be OK."

She gave a quick nod, taking a shaking breath as she tried to calm herself, for Jude's sake. Dawson was on his feet, calling the medics over. Jonas and Jess were swept aside by the team, who stabilized Jude's neck with a brace before hauling her onto the stretcher.

"I'm going with her," Jess informed them.

The lead medic held out a hand, as if to stop her, "Ma'am, you can't—"

"I have to be with her—she's my partner—"

"Ma'am, we don't—"

"My _partner_ partner, you asshole," Jess was on the verge of shrieking. "I don't care if I have to run behind the goddamn ambulance, I'm going with her."

She held up her hands in a pleading gesture. The EMTs were already wheeling Jude back to the ambulance, and every moment that took her father away from Jessalyn only increased her franticness.

That's when the medic saw the damage to her hands.

"Shit," he said. And he immediately ceased all argument, instead wrapping an arm around her and ushering her to the back of the ambulance.

Jessalyn spared one last glance over her shoulder, at Dawson, whose face had bloomed into an expression of shell-shocked surprise. Of course, he'd overhead the whole exchange, which was almost as explosive as the actual bomb that had just detonated, but he saw the earnestness in Jessalyn's face, and as shocking as her words had been, he knew they were true. However, the grave set of his mouth silently informer her: _We're coming back to this, very soon._

Keller didn't respond. She was already climbing into the ambulance, following her partner into whatever happened next.

Dawson glanced over at Shostakovich, whose studied mask implied that he'd been well-aware of this relationship. Now wasn't the time or place to ask such questions, but Dawson briefly wondered what other life-altering secrets his team was keeping from him.

The whole world was going to hell in a handbasket.

* * *

 _ **Derek & Savannah's House. Washington, D.C.**_

By the time Derek Morgan had returned from his morning run, Savannah had woken up and thrown together a mélange of breakfast items—a sure sign that she had a rare day off.

"You didn't want to sleep in?" He asked, slipping off his running shoes and leaving them by the front door.

"Nah," came her reply from the kitchen. He followed her voice into the room, offering a quick kiss before gladly accepting the glass of water that she'd poured for him. With a small smile, she added, "Besides, what's the point of staying in bed if you're not there with me?"

He grinned.

Savannah quickly lost her mirth, her voice becoming etched with quiet concern. "This case must be pretty tough."

"It's personal. They're always the hardest," he admitted, downing the glass of water and turning his attention to the pot of coffee that was currently brewing.

"You know how I can tell?" She began dicing up bits of fruit for a smoothie, the rhythmic patting of the knife against the wooden cutting board somehow comforting, reminding Morgan of early evenings in his mother's kitchen. "You went for a run last night, and you're back at it again this morning. You only workout this much when you're stressed. Like you're trying to outrun your problems."

It wasn't an accusation, merely an observation. But it was still true.

Morgan leaned back against the kitchen counter, looking down at his hands. "Maybe it's more about trying to run into a solution. It's not just this case—I'm worried for Reid, of course, but other things are happening, too, and I—"

"Other things? What other things?" Savannah looked up, both concerned and curious.

"Just…." It shouldn't be so hard to talk about it, but it was—he suddenly realized that perhaps Garcia had a point. He felt a frisson of anger for his own hesitancy, because he knew he had nothing to hide or be ashamed of, when it came to his relationship with his best friend, and yet, here he was, acting as if he were admitting some shady secret. He pushed himself forward anyways, "Penelope and I have decided to…to try something new."

"Oh?" Savannah become impossibly still, her eyes wide with an unreadable emotion.

"After all this—Penelope and Sam broke up," Derek found himself unsure of where to start or how to explain it to Savannah. "And apparently, Sam insinuated some unpleasant things about me and Garcia, and now she's got it in her head that we need more distance between us."

Oddly enough, his girlfriend looked relieved at the news. "OK, so…what does that mean, exactly? You two still work together, you'll see each other almost every day—how is the whole distance-thing gonna work?"

"It's more of an emotional distance," he admitted.

"Well, you two are very close, emotionally," Savannah returned her attention to her smoothie-making endeavors. Somehow, she made the word _very_ sound like a reproach.

"Of course we are—she's my closest friend, she gets me like no one else does," he suddenly felt the need to defend his relationship with Garcia. "She got me, from day one, and vice-versa. She's just always been—"

"Your Babygirl?" Savannah looked up at him, one eyebrow arched pointedly.

"That bothers you." The realization hit like a bolt of lightning. Savannah had never been the jealous type, and Morgan thought he'd always been perfectly clear in the fact that he wanted her and her alone—but obviously he'd blinded himself to the truth that his closeness with another woman still upset her.

She gave a light shake of her head, as if trying to shoo the statement away, "I mean, I know you don't—I shouldn't feel this way about it, I know, and I'm sorry that I do, but…but I do."

"Savannah," he moved closer to her, but she made a curt motion with her hand that stopped him.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if reining back a deeper emotion—he'd known her long enough to know that she was trying to remain logical and practical, because she truly wanted him to hear what she was saying. So he quietly waited, giving his full attention.

"Look, from the moment I met her, I knew that she obviously knew you deeper and better than I did. She was—she _is_ —your best friend, and she's known you longer. She knows who you used to be, knows parts of you that I'll never get to see. She's witnessed things in your life that I'll never get to witness, and so I'll never truly understand, at least not like she does. And that can be hard to deal with, at times."

"But you're the one who's going to witness parts of my future," he reminded her gently. "There are still years and years—"

"And can you honestly say that at some point, I will still be a part of your life, and Penelope Garcia won't?" She froze him with her clinically intense stare, as if she were searching for an answer in the lines of his face.

The idea of a future in which Penelope wasn't present sent a stab of fear straight through Morgan's chest.

His reaction must have been answer enough, because Savannah dipped her head again, quietly saying, "Exactly. No matter how long I know you, she'll always have known you first, and longer."

"It's…it's not a competition," he kept his tone low, infusing it with a gentle kindness. He understood her dilemma, but there was nothing he could (or more importantly _would_ ) do to remedy it. He realized with utter clarity that this would always be an issue for them, no matter how many times they overcame it, no matter how many reassurances he provided.

"I know," she began tossing bits of fruit into the blender. "And I'm not trying to make it one. I'm just saying, it's still something that's…hard to deal with, at times."

"Have I ever done or said something that made you feel as if you couldn't trust me?" He was genuinely curious. "I mean, has there ever been a time that you felt worried that I might…"

He couldn't even bring himself to finish the question.

"No, of course not," she answered quickly, saving him. But her response was too quick, too emphatic, and that didn't escape his notice, although he kindly didn't point it out.

Damn. Garcia had been right, more so than he'd realized.

"I never want you to feel inferior—to anyone, about anything," he meant it, every word. "And if I ever do something that makes you feel that way, speak up. I don't care what it is, Savannah. Just tell me."

She nodded quickly, pressing her lips into a thin line. And in that moment, he knew that she was lying to him—she wouldn't tell him, not even when he openly asked her to.

Because the one thing she wanted to ask for was the one thing that she knew he couldn't give—Morgan felt the reality long before his brain processed it into coherent thought. She wanted him to give up Penelope, to place her in the role of closest and best friend, and she knew that he could never do that.

He felt so torn that he wanted to scream.

However, the sound that ripped apart the heavy silence of the kitchen was a different kind of wailing—the blender, which whirled and growled as it churned the fruit and yogurt into Savannah's morning smoothie.

He took a moment to just watch his girlfriend, taking in the set of her shoulders and the impassive expression on her face. She wasn't happy, and she was done talking about it, for now. He knew better than to pursue the subject—although he also knew that at some point, they would have to come back to it. Things like this didn't just go away or fix themselves.

His cellphone vibrated in his pants pocket, and he fished it out, his body tensing involuntarily as he saw a text from Will LaMontagne.

However, it was good news—JJ was officially on the mend, and she was being transferred out of ICU that morning.

"I've gotta go," he informed her, raising his voice to be heard over the machine.

She gave a curt nod, studiously focusing on her smoothie. He fought the urge to stay and help unpack her feelings about Garcia. It would have to wait—he needed a shower, a change of clothes, and to be on his way to the hospital as quickly as possible.

It wasn't until he was in the shower that he realized he could have easily told Savannah about JJ—it would have made her smile, made her morning a little brighter. It took half a second longer to realize that he hadn't told her because deep down, he was angry, upset that she'd pull his relationship with Garcia into their own relationship, making the blonde a problem that couldn't be solved.

Of all the things and people in his life, Penelope Garcia was the least problematic. If anything, she was the fix-all solution for most of his problems. The thought that he could give her up—for anything, or anyone—was terrifying. He couldn't imagine a life without his sunny Babygirl, and more importantly, he didn't want to.

Which left him at a crossroads. If it came down to it, who would he choose? Would he step back, letting Savannah claim Penelope's place in his life? Or would he let go of the first woman in a very long time who'd made him see a future, see beyond the four walls of Quantico and into a normal life that he'd always wanted?

He honestly didn't know. And that was probably the scariest part.

In that moment, his mother's wry voice rang in his head. _Nothing's ever easy, baby._

He shook his head in response, lightly mumbling, "I ain't got time for this. Not today."

It was, of course, true. But the nagging feeling that someday soon, he would have to make time for this played at the back of his brain for the rest of the morning.

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

The warm weight of an arm around her waist and the sound of light snoring just behind her ear informed Penelope Garcia that Emily Prentiss had snuck into her bed during the night. She fought back a grin as she thought about how much Derek Morgan would pay just to see this, or better yet, to be a part of it.

Penelope knew that she'd woken up just a few minutes before her daily alarm was set to go off—her usual and very-annoying habit—so she simply kept still, allowing Emily a few more minutes of rest. She knew that if she tried to get out of bed, it would instantly wake the brunette, who was the world's lightest sleeper.

However, the rest of the world wasn't as considerate—Penelope's phone rang, and Emily bolted upright, startled but awake.

"It's mine," the blonde assured her friend, reaching over to take her phone off the nightstand. She sat up, glancing at her phone's screen, "It's Will."

"What's happened?" Emily leaned over, her dark brows quirking downward in concern.

"I don't know, I haven't answered yet." Penelope quickly remedied the situation, "Hello?"

"Goooooood morning, Aunt Nelope!" Henry's voice exploded in her ear, the childish excitement and delight completely unmistakable.

"Good morning to you, darling Nenry," Penelope felt a grin spreading across her face once more—no bad news could ever come from her dear godson's mouth, she knew that much. Whatever his reason for calling, it was good.

"Guess where we're going? Guess, guess, guess!"

"Uh, I don't know—"

"To see Mommy!"

There was a light shuffle and then Will's voice came across the line, "We were just calling to let you know that JJ's being moved to a regular room, as we speak. I know she'll want to see you all, as soon as possible."

"Well, the feeling's mutual," Penelope assured him. Emily had her head leaned against Penelope's, listening in.

"Is Emily with you?"

"Yep," Penelope smiled at how well her friend's hubby knew them.

"Tell her to come along, too."

Emily had already heard, because she sprang from the bed and began to get ready.

"And you tell JJ to get ready, because we'll be there ASAP."

"Will do. See ya soon."

"Bye, Aunt Nelope!" Henry interjected in the background.

Penelope hung up with a laugh of relief and delight. Emily had disappeared into the next room—the blonde could hear the flurry of noise as her friend threw together an outfit for the day.

"I'll be ready in ten minutes!" Penelope assured her, sliding out of bed as well.

"Make it five," came the reply, laced with a grin.

"You can't rush perfection, Emily. Hasn't Aaron Hotchner taught you anything?"

"Oh, Christ," her friend groaned from the next room. "I thought we'd let that go already."

"Oh, honey bun, never in a million years will I ever give up on my dreams for your future."

Emily gave a snort of amusement, suddenly reappearing in the doorway, fully-clothed and whipping a brush through her hair.

"Then, for the remainder of the day, can you just let those dreams be silent and unexpressed?"

"I'm not going to publicly embarrass you," Penelope assured her, wincing slightly as she settled against her crutches. "Man, I forgot how sore these things make you."

"When we get to hospital, I'll commandeer a wheelchair," her friend promised. "I'll pull out my Interpol badge, if I have to."

"Using your position as an international authority for my benefit—I like the way you operate, Chief Prentiss."

Emily offered a winningly suave smile, "Anything for you, Babygirl."

Penelope laughed. Emily motioned around the room, "But c'mon. I was serious about that five-minutes-or-less thing."

"Yeah, yeah," Penelope made her way to the closet, already mentally going through her wardrobe to find the day's cotumerie. She decided upon her Batman print dress, knowing that Henry would approve of her choice. "You think you could help me with my hair?"

"Garcia, there's a reason that I always wear mine down or a in a ponytail," Emily drolly informed her.

"Right. No Miss Feminine for you."

"I am feminine." Emily bridled slightly at the accusation, crossing her arms over her chest. "Just…not in the same way as you are."

"Of course, Emmy love. And I know one man in particular who finds you very—"

"I thought we agreed to drop it, Garcia."

"Fine. But maybe you should tell him to stop looking at you like he's the wolf and you're Little Red Riding Hood."

Emily's face went pale, "Aaron Hotchner was not—"

"I never mentioned a name—so why did you automatically assume that I was talking about Hotch?" Penelope turned and pointed at her friend, as if accusing the prime suspect in a theatrical murder-mystery.

"Who else have you been hinting at, ever since last night?" Emily rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Garcia, this was funny at first, but now it's really pushing it. We've got more important things to do."

The blonde was smiling beatifically, gracefully ceding the field of battle—although her ease in letting go came from the smugness of knowing that she was right. Emily gave a sigh and turned back to the kitchen.

The teasing was bearable. Not knowing whether Garcia's taunts came from her own imaginings or from things she'd actually seen noticed was the frustrating part. Emily knew that she couldn't outright ask for clarification, because her question would also be damning proof that Garcia was right on the money.

 _Why is this such a big deal?_ Emily's inner voice chided. _Who cares if everyone knows? It's not like you work together anymore, it's not like you're doing anything wrong. Why should this stay a secret?_

She knew the answer, deep down—because if they ever ended this, she'd want that to be kept a secret, too. She wouldn't want to be known as the woman who'd failed Aaron Hotchner, neither personally or professionally.

Damn her inner voice for quietly asking, _Who says you're gonna fail?_

Because somehow, the thought of succeeding seemed even more frightening.

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

Anyone walking past Jennifer Jareau's door would think she was the queen holding court, given the number of people waiting in the hallway outside the hospital room. Garcia had immediately dubbed in Bureau-Con, given the sheer number of agents, past and present, currently assembled. Of course, Sandy and Will were there, with Henry, along with Hotch, Morgan, and Callahan. True to her promise, Prentiss had procured a wheelchair for Garcia, and the two had arrived in a flurry of wheels and breathless laughter. Finally Rossi and Blake had shown up, the former bearing polenta pancakes topped with fruit and the latter faux-complaining about her host banging pots and pans at the crack of dawn.

Hotch grinned at Dave's culinary gift. "Did you really bring JJ pancakes?"

" _Polenta_ pancakes," the Italian corrected haughtily. "Look, she needs to regain her strength as quickly as possible, and she can't do that on lousy hospital food."

He quickly swatted away Morgan's curious hand, although he slipped a strawberry off the plate and handed it to Henry, who grinned with delight as he munched on the fruit.

"Hey," Morgan protested.

"He's cuter than you," Rossi informed him.

Henry beamed at the way everyone laughed in agreement, but he offered the last bite of his strawberry to Morgan, who ruffled his hair and politely refused.

"I think it would be best if I just…hung out here," Blake motioned to the hallway. With a slightly pained expression, she added, "It'll look strange if both Prentiss and I are here, just to see her."

"We could say you were in town for a lecture or a conference," Hotch suggested.

Blake shook her head, "I don't think she'd buy it. The coincidence is too high."

Will made a sound of agreement. "As much as I hate shielding her from the people she loves, I have to agree. We're already going to have issues with the fact that she'll notice Spencer's missing, right off the bat."

"He's up at the Academy," Hotch offered, something that wasn't a lie in the least. "He's tied up with some aspects of the case, but he'll be here as soon as he can."

"Yeah, but we all know he'd be the first one here, regardless of what was going on with the case," Emily pointed out, and everyone nodded in agreement.

"Where is Uncle Spence?" Henry piped up.

Penelope pulled him into her lap, thankful that being in a wheelchair also meant she was able to hold her godson without hurting her ankle further. "He'll be here soon."

"How soon?"

His godmother merely kissed his cheek, giving him a hug that squeezed the air from his lungs. "As soon as he can, I promise you."

They decided to go in shifts, in an attempt to refrain from overwhelming JJ. First Sandy, Will, and Henry, followed by Rossi with his breakfast treats, Callahan, and Morgan. Finally, Hotch and Garcia entered.

"We've got a surprise for you," Garcia beamed mischievously.

"Is it better than Rossi's pancakes? Because, seriously, they're pretty awesome." JJ deadpanned. Her head was still bandaged, but the one visible blue eye twinkled happily.

"Oh, I think even Rossi would admit that this surprise is better," Aaron Hotchner assured her, the smile on his face making JJ grin even wider.

"Well, that's a pretty high compliment," she declared.

Hotch leaned out the door, speaking softly to someone in the hallway.

The moment Emily Prentiss' face appeared, JJ let out a squeal of surprise and delight. Her friend was at her side in a second, gently wrapping her into a hug—however JJ didn't reciprocate the gentleness, instead holding on so tightly that Emily thought her neck might break.

"Oh my god, are you really here?" JJ was still holding on, as if she was afraid Emily might float away.

"I am," Emily's voice was muffled by JJ's shoulder, and despite the uncomfortableness of her current pose, she wouldn't have moved for the world.

"How—when—why?"

Emily laughed at her friend's delighted confusion, finally pulling back but still sitting on the edge of the bed—that was a much distance as she'd allowed between them. "Hotch called me. I came as soon as I could."

It wasn't a lie, technically—but she still felt a pang of guilt for the fact that she probably wouldn't be here if Reid hadn't been in trouble.

"I'm so glad you're here," JJ was smiling so widely that her one visible eye was a mere slit.

Hotchner glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry, but we've got to go. There's still some—"

"Wait, where's Spence?" JJ looked around, her smile fading slightly.

"He's at the Academy, with Cruz," Emily offered easily. Again, technically not a lie.

"They'll be here as soon as they can," Hotch added gently.

JJ gave a slight nod, although worry had begun to set in the lines of her face.

From the hallway, Derek Morgan shifted into the doorframe, giving a slight motion for Hotch to join him.

"I'm glad you're doing better," the BAU chief offered one last smile, reaching out to give JJ's hand a reassuring squeeze—and action that had him leaning over Emily Prentiss. Penelope Garcia noted that Emily didn't shift out of the way—obviously she was quite comfortable being in such close contact with Aaron's chest. Garcia fought a wicked grin at the realization, and suddenly realized that she needed to run all of her new data by Morgan, as soon as possible.

"Well, I'm going to skedaddle, too," she announced, and Hotch gallantly took the handles of her wheelchair, moving her forward so that she could reach out and pat JJ's hand as well.

"Surely you're not working on this case," JJ looked concerned. "You should still be on leave."

"I am still technically out of the game. I'm just…Morgan is my ride, so if he's heading back to Quantico, he'll have to take me home first." Garcia surprised herself with how easily she lied. With a smile, she added, "Besides, you and Em have way more catching up to do."

Emily held up her hands, "I am the only one here on a mini vacation, so I can be a total slacker and spend all day watching soap operas with you."

JJ hummed in amusement at the thought, "Just like that time we got super-hungover after ladies night at—"

"Oh, god, don't remind me," Emily rolled her eyes heavenward. "Just thinking about it makes my head spin."

Garcia and Hotch offered one last round of farewells before leaving the room.

JJ waited until they were fully gone before turning to her friend with a teasing smile. "So… _Hotch_ was the one who called you?"

Her friend's dark eyes flicked to the ceiling in a facsimile of an eyeroll. "Leave it."

"Oh, not a chance."

Emily tamped down a smile and a wave of frustration—another person on the hook-up-with-Hotch bandwagon. Just what she needed.

* * *

Derek Morgan moved further down the hall, obviously expecting Hotch to follow him, which he did. Once it was just the two of them, in relative seclusion, Morgan spoke, his tone low, "I think something's happened since last night."

"What do you mean?" Hotch's face skewed into an expression of concerned confusion.

His teammate glanced over his shoulder, back down the hall. "I went to go grab some coffee, a few minutes ago—"

Hotch noted that aforementioned coffee was nowhere in sight. Something was definitely up.

"And on the way, I saw Agent Keller in the waiting room."

"Maybe she's here to interview one of the agents who was hurt in the bombing," Hotch's tone implied that he was merely trying to find an explanation, although he didn't believe the one he'd just offered.

"I don't think so. She was in the waiting room reserved for surgery." Morgan shifted slightly, adding, "And, her hands were bandaged. Like she'd been injured."

Now Hotch's concern deepened—as did his frown. "You're sure about this?"

Morgan gave a curt nod.

Aaron Hotchner glanced down the hall, in the direction of the surgical wing, with which he'd become all too familiar, over the years.

"Perhaps we should take a walk."

Again, Morgan nodded in agreement.

"Fellas," David Rossi sidled up to them, his hands in his pockets in a completely innocent gesture, although his tone implied that he knew they were up to something.

Glancing back at the rest of the crew, he saw Callahan, Blake, and Garcia all watching them with expectant expression.

Sometimes he realized how hard it was to work with a bunch of people highly-trained in behavioral cues.

Morgan quickly caught Rossi up to speed on what he'd seen, and the older man simply gave a grave nod.

"I can't believe I'm the voice of caution here," Rossi spoke gently. "But if Keller is waiting in the surgical ward, it can't be good news—I don't think she'll exactly welcome a visit from inquiring minds."

Hotch had to agree with the assessment. Still, Morgan countered, "We'll make it look unplanned. I'll walk by, notice her as if by accident, then go over to see if she's—"

"Or you could just ask Dawson," Rossi nodded down the hall. At the end of the corridor, there was a nurses' station, where Jack Dawson was leaned over the counter, obviously asking for some kind of information. "Looks like he just got here."

Hotch was already halfway down the hall, his long, purposeful strides easily devouring the distance. Morgan moved to follow, but Rossi lightly held him back.

"Let's keep it mano-a-mano." The older man suggested. And despite his screaming curiosity, Morgan agreed.

"What's up?" Kate Callahan raised her voice slightly, gaining their attention.

"Not sure yet," Rossi returned nonchalantly as he and Morgan moved back towards the three women.

Blake kept her arms tightly crossed over her chest, like a shield. She was keeping quiet, afraid that JJ might hear her voice in the hallway and realize that she was here, which would only lead to more questions. Morgan had assured her that all was well with her former colleague, but Blake had fought the urge to see for herself.

Rossi must have understood, or at least sensed her general mood, because he reached over, lightly patting her shoulder in a gesture of comfort and solidarity.

Keeping her eyes on Hotch's retreating form, her face shouted the question that her mouth didn't dare to whisper.

 _What the hell is going on?_

* * *

" _When you are going through hell—keep going."_

 _~Winston Churchill._


	29. The Uncharted Territory

**The Uncharted Territory**

" _We learn the deepest things in unknown territory."_

 _~Jack Kornfield._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: The second section of this chapter mentions Hotch and Emily's first meeting—you can find my imagining of that particular event in Out of Africa (Ch 31).***_

* * *

 _ **Fairfaix Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"Dawson."

Jack Dawson turned around, too drained to be surprised by the familiar voice or its owner.

"Hotchner." He returned, his face impassive and expressionless. Over the BAU agent's shoulder, he could see a huddle of people, thirty yards down the hallway, all watching with worried expressions.

"What's happened?" Aaron Hotchner didn't pretend as if he wasn't aware that something was going on, and Dawson appreciated the directness. He had neither the time nor the energy for a game of coy round-robin.

Dawson turned down another corridor, towards the surgical ward, motioning for Hotch to follow. His voice matched the quick, low beat of his footsteps on the waxed tiled floors, "We found the woman responsible for Linnea Charles' abduction. Dr. Maura Morrow, who—get ready for a real rug-puller—was also a civilian consultant on the Amerithrax case. We went to Dr. Morrow's house early this morning, but no one was there. However, someone left behind a nasty little surprise—the doctor's SUV was rigged to blow, which is exactly what it did, when Agent Eden tried to open the back hatch."

"How bad was it?" Hotch was almost afraid to ask—but if they were here instead of the morgue, that had to be some sign of hope.

Dawson rubbed his face, a sign of frustration and fatigue. "Jude's in surgery now. She had to have realized that there was a bomb, because she tried to get away before…still, she did have burn damage on her left leg and arm, maybe some on her neck. Luckily it was cold and she was wearing a lot of layers, plus a Kevlar vest. Agent Keller's hands are pretty messed up—she was the first one to Eden's side; she tried to put the flames out with her bare hands."

Jack now understood that it wasn't just the actions of an agent trying to save her teammate, but that was a kettle of fish for another day's frying.

"Was anyone else injured?" Hotch asked, his voice lined with concern and empathy.

Dawson gave a weary shake of his head, "No, thankfully. But Eden's having a time of it. She's been concussed, and the main reason for taking her into surgery was that they detected internal bleeding—they're thinking a piece of shrapnel from the SUV must've hit her in the lower abdomen and done some damage. I'm hoping Keller has an update."

Hotch mentally added all the ailments he'd endured after surviving a similar blast in New York—ruptured eardrums, bruises and contusions, the general feeling of having been thrown about like a ragdoll. He felt a pang of empathy for Agent Eden.

They rounded another corner, coming into the waiting room outside the surgical ward. Jessalyn Keller saw them and rose to her feet. Hotch immediately noticed the bandages covering her hands, swaddling from fingertips to wrist—obviously she'd lost some of her own skin, trying to save Eden's.

The blonde didn't even wait for them to ask, "A nurse came by a few minutes ago—they're bringing her out of surgery now, but it could be awhile before they let us see her. There were several pieces of shrapnel in her lower back, just where her Kevlar vest ended. Luckily, the vest gave her added protection—they're saying it looks like she had enough time to tuck her head in before she hit, so the main impact was on the back of her neck and shoulders. It's not nearly as bad as it could've been."

The relief in her words and expression were unmistakable.

"Thank heaven for little miracles," Dawson breathed in agreement. He returned his attention to the BAU Chief. "Macaraeg and her team are already on site, collecting what's left of the IED. The bomb wasn't well-constructed, and it didn't do as much damage as it should've—there wasn't a body in the garage, but any trace of Linnea that might have been in the back of the SUV is long gone."

"But no body means there's still a chance that Linnea's alive," Keller pointed out.

"Possibly," Dawson didn't seem too hopeful. "The evidence recovery team is also going to scour the house for any evidence that Linnea was there."

"I don't think they'll find anything," Hotch admitted.

Dawson shrugged, as if to imply that he didn't either. Then he added, "Sura Roza's been on Dr. Morrow's trail all morning. She wasn't logged on any flights, domestic or international, and she hasn't used her credit cards in two days. There's a good chance that she's hit the road in Linnea's car, since we still haven't found it."

"Which means she could be just about anywhere now." Hotch surmised.

Dawson didn't comment. His phone rang, and he quickly answered, "Dawson."

His face dawned with surprise. Turning back to the two agents standing next to him, he put the call on speakerphone and announced, "Sura, repeat what you just told me."

The technical analyst's voice came over the line, "Well, I dug a little deeper into Maura Morrow's life. She has a sister, who lives in England. They grew up there, actually—anyways, this sister is on the flight manifest for a flight which left D.C. last night, headed for London. But here's the crazy thing: there's no documentation that the sister ever flew over to America—not in the last six months, anyways. And if you want to get even crazier, get this: the ticket was paid for _in cash_."

"Cash keeps Morrow's credit cards off the grid," Dawson pointed out.

"She'd be subject to additional screenings at the airport," Keller added. "Last-minute cash purchase of an international flight ticket? The TSA was definitely alerted."

"Yeah, but why wouldn't she pass all the checkpoints?" Sura piped up. "At that point, she wasn't connected to anything or anyone suspicious."

"When did she land in London?" Dawson asked.

Sura was obviously checking the flight information, because there was a slight pause before she stated, "Flight was nonstop, seven and a half hours, and with the time change…she landed around ten in London, which was five o'clock in the morning, our time."

Dawson glanced at his watch, "She's had hours to move on since then."

"Well, neither her nor her sister are on any more flight manifests, so if she's on the move, she's not flying. Not yet, anyways."

"Do we have enough to extradite her?" Jess asked quietly, her big green eyes filled with concern.

Aaron Hotchner spoke up, returning to the question that had been on his mind ever since Dawson had informed him of the new development, "What about Spencer Reid?"

Dawson gave a small shake of his head, "O'Donnell's not gonna release him, not until we talk to Maura Morrow. Besides, there's the fact that the first handwriting analyst confirmed the list was Dr. Reid's handwriting. By the way, Callahan never got back to me with your nominee for an analyst, so Macaraeg sent it to a friend of hers in New York—I'm still willing to send it to a third, if you just gimme a name."

"I'll do that right now," Hotch informed him. He took a step back, quietly wished Keller a speedy recovery and told them that Eden would be in his team's thoughts, and hurried back down the hall.

A wave of appreciation washed over him as he approached JJ's room—the BAU past and present were still waiting for him, and he felt the relief of knowing that he wasn't alone. Callahan, Rossi, and Blake were slumped into a bank of chairs along the wall, with Garcia's wheelchair parked beside them. Morgan was the only one still standing, arms folded in a gesture that implied his attempt to be patient. Once he saw Hotch, the younger man sprang forward, meeting him halfway, "So, what's the news?"

Hotch waited until everyone was in a huddle around him before turning his attention to Alex Blake, "During the Amerithrax case, did you ever meet Dr. Maura Morrow?"

Alex blinked, taken off-guard by the question. "Yes, she…we handled the linguistics on the letters together. She was the person I called yesterday to help with the handwriting analysis, but she said she couldn't help."

She frowned slightly as she added, "She was supposed to send over a list of analysts who could possibly help, but she never did—I had planned to follow up with her later this morning."

Hotch's expression informed her that was the least of their worries. "The Flying Js have pretty solid evidence that Dr. Morrow abducted Linnea Charles."

"Are you sure?" Alex was incredulous. "I mean—why?"

"They're still figuring that out," Hotch admitted.

"If she is somehow connected to this, then she already knows we're on to her," Rossi pointed out gravely. "She knows that we're not buying the frame on Reid—we called her to prove it."

Hotch held up his hands, trying to stop the train of thought. "She's definitely aware that we're on to her. Her sister's passport was used on a flight to London last night—Sura Roza is still trying to verify that it's actually Morrow."

David Rossi tucked his hands into his pockets, "Well, then, it's a good thing we happen to know someone who has a great working relationship with the London PD."

Instinctively, Hotch turned to JJ's door, behind which Emily remained oblivious to unfolding events.

"That was my next move," he admitted.

"So, Emily gets London to confirm it's actually Maura Morrow—then what?" Callahan spoke up for the first time, holding out her hands in a gesture of helpless confusion. "Do they send her back on the next flight to D.C.? I mean, do we even have enough to extradite her?"

"One step at a time," Hotch informed her.

"She rigged her own car with explosives," Morgan pointed out.

"We don't know that for sure yet," Blake countered, more out of a need to play devil's advocate than actual belief.

"There's this American concept of innocent until proven guilty," Rossi added, his tone edged with mild snark (because of course Derek Morgan was well aware of said concept).

"Rossi, it's early and I still haven't had my coffee," Morgan warned.

"What about Reid?" Penelope piped up, her big Bambi eyes wide with fear.

Hotch gave another curt shake of his head. "They still won't release Reid—Morrow's involvement doesn't exonerate him."

"So we need to get Morrow back here ASAP," Morgan surmised, setting his hands on his hips.

"Once she confesses, it'll clear Reid," Callahan added with a nod.

"That's only if she doesn't try to name him as a co-conspirator," Blake pointed out in a low tone, as if she regretted her words.

"Either way, we need Maura Morrow," Hotch redirected, moving past them towards JJ's room.

Emily was in a chair beside JJ's bed, Henry curled up in her lap as Will sat on the edge of the bed and Sandy took the chair in the corner. Even in the few minutes since Hotch had last seen JJ, he could have sworn that she'd already improved. Of course, it made sense. Of all his agents, Jennifer Jareau was the most tribal—she needed to be a part of a tribe, to have an active role in its survival and protection, and she did best when she was surrounded by her fellow members. Humans were pack creatures by nature, and JJ was the epitome of their evolutionary complex, the best and brightest example of how that mentality could benefit an individual and its society.

"Hey, you," JJ noticed him first, her tone tinged with surprise. "I figured you guys had left by now."

"Well, that was the plan," he admitted. By now, Emily had turned to face him, her expression etched with concern. With a motion to the hallway, he said, "I need to speak with you."

Henry easily slid out of her lap, happily climbing into his mother's arms again—however, that didn't distract JJ, who was watching the two with intense curiosity and a modicum of concern.

Will LaMontagne clenched his jaw and wished that his wife wasn't so damned perceptive sometimes.

* * *

Emily waited until they were out of earshot before quietly asking, "Hotch, what's happened?"

Again, he repeated what he'd told the others.

"We need to get Morrow back to the US, now," Emily decreed.

"I know."

Emily frowned, "There's a chance that she could fight extradition—you could have the Brits question her, but until you have enough solid evidence to create reasonable suspicion that she definitely kidnapped Linnea Charles and that she definitely set that bomb in her vehicle—"

"I know," he repeated, his tone emphasizing the words more pointedly. After all, he was the one who'd been to law school.

"Of course. I know you know," Emily ducked her head slightly. "I'm just…thinking out loud."

Aaron felt a wave of contrition, but he fought the urge to reach out and physically reassure her—the others were still watching, waiting less than fifty feet away. So instead, he merely infused his tone with the regret that he couldn't express, gently continuing. "Right now, all we need is confirmation that Maura Morrow was the one who took the flight to London. I'm sure Dawson is already working on building enough of a case for an extradition warrant as we speak."

She gave a slight nod, "We have access to all the CCTVs at Heathrow—we can have a facial recognition match within an hour, most likely."

"Good," he mimicked her nod. He glanced over her shoulder, where Penelope Garcia was watching them with rapt fascination.

Emily, who had her back turned to the others, still read his expression easily enough, "They're watching our every move, aren't they?"

"Garcia is."

Emily sighed. "Yeah, she might be…aware. I didn't say anything, but I think she knows, anyways."

"Is that a bad thing?" He asked, his gaze zeroing in on her face, scrutinizing her reaction for any hint of an answer.

"I don't know," she admitted. Her dark eyes flicked upwards to meet his, "Is it?"

Sometimes, he forgot how vulnerable and uncertain she was, underneath it all—it was easy to forget, considering how often she blazed onto the scene, ready to take on any battle, capable and witty and safely encased in her mental armor. But every now and again, she revealed flashes of the same uncertain young woman he'd met at Elizabeth Prentiss' brownstone almost twenty-four years ago. And while he didn't particularly enjoy seeing her in such a fragile state, he knew the fact that she'd allowed him to see this side of her was a gift—a gift made out of her trust in him, a gift he'd do his damnedest to prove worthy of.

He took a half-step closer to her, quietly confessing, "I don't care if the whole world knows, Emily. We have nothing to hide."

She looked away, both pleased and embarrassed. Of course, Aaron was right—they weren't doing anything wrong, they had no reason to hide or feel guilty. Still, there were so many other things tied to this new variation of their relationship, and none of it could or should be dealt with at this particular moment. So she cleared her throat, and kept her tone low, "I think we should talk about this later."

"Agreed," his tone was filled with warmth, as if his idea of talking might be something a little more physical. "You should stop by, tonight."

His tone may have changed, but his face remained impassive and unreadable—Emily realized that it was for the benefit of the curious eyes still watching them down the hallway. However, his eyes were shining with a mischief that made her stomach flutter.

"Just remember what I said last night—next time you show up on my doorstep, you'd better be prepared to stay until morning," he informed her, heading back to the others. He didn't stay to watch her reaction, but he could feel her smile.

Emily bit her lip to keep from grinning like a fool. That man. That. Man.

She slid her phone out of her back pocket and returned her attention to helping the case—she felt a pang of guilt for the fact that she'd wasted a few precious seconds flirting with Aaron, when she could have been on the phone, tracking down the woman responsible for Spencer Reid's current situation. However, it was easy to overcome—and again, she felt a wave of fear at just how easily she pushed aside her guilt, simply because it had given her a chance to see Aaron Hotchner's eyes light up.

 _Emily, Emily, you're playing with fire—and things are already beginning to burn._

* * *

"Emily's going to contact authorities in London," Hotch announced, casting one last doleful glance to JJ's closed door. "We need to get as much info as we can on Maura Morrow—she's been on the ground in London for hours now, so we're already behind."

Penelope waved her hand, motioning for Derek Morgan to get behind her wheelchair, "Onward, noble steed—let's rock, rattle, and roll."

He rolled his eyes at his newest moniker, although he still obeyed, easily pushing her towards the exit. Alex Blake fell into step beside him, ducking her head to hide her amusement, although he was still keenly aware of it.

Hotch hung back for a moment, pulling out his phone again to call Dawson. Rossi waited as well, watching the others trek down the hall. Once he was sure that they were out of earshot, he quietly intoned, "So, I take it you and Emily have had some time to catch up."

"Not now, Dave."

The older man held up his hands in a sign of surrender, "I just want to say, for future reference—if you ever need some advice, I'm here. I know how Emily thinks—she's basically the female version of me, when it comes to—"

"That's really not an image I want in my head. Ever."

"I know," he smiled smugly. "That's why I mentioned it."

"You're a really horrible friend, you know that?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug, as if waving away high praise. "I try, you know."

Hotch was smiling, deep down on the inside, Rossi could tell. However, the Italian became serious again, "I mean it though, Aaron—you two are entering new territory, so if you need a sounding board, I'm here."

"New territory?"

Rossi grinned again. "You really think you can keep this from the rest of the gang? Whatever this is, it's about to go official—or at least officially on-record."

He began to walk away, turning to backpedal as he held out his hands in a grand gesture, "You're not in Kenya anymore, Toto."

* * *

You could have driven a train through the long, awkward silence that reigned between Jack Dawson and Jessalyn Keller as they stiffly took their seats in the hospital waiting room. Dawson had prided himself on being the kind of boss who didn't meddle in his agents' private lives, and whose agents had never made it necessary to do so. Of course, there was the added unpleasantness of realizing that the rest of his team had kept a secret from him, and the lack of trust such an omission had implied.

He wasn't mad—he was sure of that much. But in a way, he wished that he could be. It'd certainly feel less awful than the gut-clenching sensation of disappointment, both with himself and his agents. And yes, there was a sting of hurt in there, too—a thing deeper and more personal, from the place of a man who'd considered these people his friends.

He glanced at his hands, unsure of how to begin such a conversation (briefly, he wondered if this was why Keller and Eden hadn't told him—because it was just too strange a conversation to simply begin, much less continue).

Mercifully, it was Jess who broke the silence, with the lightest of sighs.

"I'm just so tired," she admitted.

"I, um—I'm sure they would let us have an empty room," Jack looked around, as if searching for hospital personnel. "You could crash in one of their spare beds—"

She smiled softly at his sweetness, shaking her head again. "Not that kind of tired, Jack."

A beat passed. Keller searched for the words she wanted; Dawson quietly let her.

"Jude and I—from the beginning, it's been this kind of waiting game, I guess. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering who's gonna find out next. And it's been so…exhausting. I never could quite imagine how or when it would all come out, but now that it's here, I don't even care. I'm just exhausted. Just—done."

"How long?" Jack cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. "How long has this…waiting game been going on?"

Jess ducked her head, ashamed at her own answer. "Since Lynchburg—that case with the missing girl whose classmate—"

He waved his hand, signaling that he remembered the case and didn't care for a recap. Then he frowned, "Jesus, that was…two…three years ago."

"Thirty-one months, sixteen days," Jess offered. Then, she corrected, "Seventeen days. I—today counts, doesn't it?"

On that last question, she turned to him, her eyes pricked with the terrible thought that this day, and every day after it, may not become part of her count—a count that revolved around the woman still fighting for her life after a hard blow and an equally grueling surgery.

He reached out, gently clasping her wrist, just below the bandages that swaddled her hands. "Of course it does."

She gave a small nod of agreement, pressing her lips into a thin line as she looked away again. She seemed embarrassed, but Dawson couldn't tell if it was because of her emotional outburst or the fact that she'd just inadvertently confessed to counting the days of her relationship with Judith, like some lovesick high-schooler.

Dawson looked away as well, quietly intoning, "That's…that's a pretty long time."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Keller nod in agreement.

"Sometimes, it felt like longer than that," she admitted. "But now—now, it seems as if it wasn't that long at all."

"She's going to be just fine," Dawson reminded her gently.

Another slight nod from his blonde companion, followed by a sniffle.

"I wanted to tell you, you know—from the beginning," she confessed. Dawson sat back, looking at her in surprise. Noting his expression, she gave a small smile, "Ah, c'mon, Chief. I'm by-the-books Keller, remember? I thought it was our duty to at least tell our supervising agent that we were…emotionally entangled."

"But Jude said no," Dawson guessed. And really, it made sense. Of course Keller would want to keep things above-board. She was a younger generation, one that didn't quite see the same stigma in office relationships, regardless of their orientation—and of course Jude, being from the old school, would have been diametrically opposed. In a way, their years-long façade of polar opposites had been based in a higher truth.

"Jude said no," Jess repeated.

"But you did tell Shostakovich." Dawson really wanted to ask why they'd trusted Jonas and not him, but he knew how petulant it would sound—besides, in a way, he understood. Joe and Jude were the best of friends, and Joe had a pretty amicable relationship with Jess as well.

Now Jess frowned. "No, he—we had rules, from the beginning. We didn't—we don't touch in the field, physically or even emotionally, really. We both knew that we couldn't let our personal relationship jeopardize our professional working relationship, so we just steered clear of each other during cases, for the most part."

Jack nodded, though he wondered how a relationship could survive being switched on-and-off, like a light switch. Jess continued, "And it worked, for the most part. But the last night of the Tyler Harrison investigation, it just—we slipped up. Jonas saw her leaving my room at the hotel, and he confronted her about it. That's what they've really been on about, for most of this case."

If Jack couldn't detect the guilt in Jessalyn's tone, the downward tilt of her chin and the shameful slump of her shoulders were clear markers. They both knew how close Jude and Jonas were, and obviously Jess didn't relish the fact that she'd been the cause of such discord between the two friends.

"So he only just found out," Dawson reiterated, surprised that Jude had kept such a whopping secret from her beloved Vichie for so long. He also was floored by just how off the mark Sura Roza's suppositions about those two and their relationship had been.

"Yeah," Jess gave a small nod. "Jude knew that he'd object—which he did, whenever he finally found out."

Jack hummed at the statement—it wasn't hard to imagine Jonas' indignation, although his objections were probably less about rule-breaking and more about the moral impropriety of Jude sleeping with someone who was technically beneath her in the Bureau hierarchy. Abuse of power, all that jazz. And still, it would be more about Jude putting herself in danger of a potential career-ruining lawsuit or something of a similar sordid nature.

"After Jonas, we knew it would only be a matter of time," she admitted quietly, lightly turning her bandaged hands, as if inspecting them. "And I know—I know I should be worrying about repercussions and what's-gonna-happen-now, but I have to admit, I feel relieved. Exhausted, but relieved."

Jack glanced over at her in askance. With a mirthless smile, she reminded him, "I told you, it's been absolutely draining, waiting for all of this to finally come up. Years of lying about how I spent my weekend, or fielding questions about why I won't go on a date with that guy from Cyber division—"

"He's a tool and he wears wingtips like he's a G-man from 1963," Dawson interrupted, quoting Jessalyn's usual excuse (a reason that her team had agreed was valid).

Now she grinned. "Exactly."

However, her expression became serious once more as she admitted, "And, there's the biggest drain of all, spending all my time pretending that I don't give a damn about Judith Eden when…"

She trailed off, as if lost in thought. Then Jack saw the stillness of her expression and realized that she was almost frozen with something akin to fear. Gently, he prompted, "When what?"

"I wanna marry her, Jack." Her voice shook with the confession. She kept her eyes locked straight ahead, as if she feared looking over to see his reaction. "I want to officially say I want to spend the rest of my life with her, and I want everyone to know it. I want to walk around the office wearing her ring and knowing that everyone knows it's _her_ ring, and that the ring on her finger is mine. I want to be able to look at her without having to constantly remind myself to turn off the stars in my eyes because god forbid, someone might see it and realize that she's the light of my life."

"Jesus, Keller. That's absolutely beautiful."

The blonde blushed, waving away the praise. "That's not the point. The point is…I'm afraid she'll say no."

"Why would she say no?" By now, Jack knew the answer, yet still he asked the question. He'd only been aware of their relationship for a relatively short time, but he'd gotten a pretty clear view of its dynamics, for the most part.

"Because she's too damn noble. She thinks she's protecting me. There are a few people who suspect that she's gay—or at least bi or pan or something like that—but I don't think anyone else really knows about me. At least not at work, I mean. My family knows, my friends outside the office know, I'm not in any kind of closet—but she's afraid it will hurt my chances. She says the Bureau is still a boys club, and they get threatened by women whom they know won't sleep with them. She's afraid they'll split us up, ship one of us to a different office—and I'll be the one that goes, since I'm the youngest and the newest member of the team." Jess took a deep breath, "And she knows how much this means to me—this job, this unit, this work that we do. I couldn't survive in white collar or cyber division. Then again, neither could she, and she knows I'd fall on my sword rather than let her get transferred."

Now it was Dawson's turn to look away. At this point, he couldn't entirely reassure her that such a thing wouldn't happen—as much as he cared about both women, he also had a duty to ensure their safety, and if that meant keeping them from working together to avoid emotionally compromising the team's ability, then it would be a tough but necessary call.

"Don't feel bad, if that's exactly what you have to do," Jess informed him, and he knew that she'd already forgiven him of his potential sins. "I will say that we've never let our relationship affect a case, and I think if nothing else, our hiding in plain sight for almost three years is proof of that."

He fought back a smile—yes, they'd hid it brilliantly. Perhaps that was what kept him from being angry over it all—he was overcome by the sheer amazement of how well and how long they'd kept up the charade. He was fully aware of the fact that Jude's injury had put him in a much more sympathetic and forgiving mood, but still, he was certain that he would've been amazed, regardless of how the news had finally come about.

Now wasn't the time to discuss transfers or who-broke-which-rules. Jessalyn was running on fumes and Jude was still in the woods, medically speaking. So Jack Dawson opted for distraction, switching back to a lighter subject as he asked the question that had been burning the tip of his tongue, "Does Jude know that you want to get married?"

Jess sat back, "Heavens, no. She'd get nervous even thinking about informing you and the other higher-ups that we're dating. Could you imagine her reaction to knowing that I wanted to make it legally binding?"

Jack had to laugh at the comparison. However, he shook his head slightly, "I think you're underestimating the hopeful romantic within, Keller. I've known Judith Eden for a long time now—not on the same level as you have, obviously, but well enough. You are right, she's noble, as noble as a white knight from some long-lost fairytale. But that's the thing about knights, isn't it?"

She looked at him, both curious and quizzical.

"They do it all for love, Keller. They search for it, they fight for it, they defend it—everything they do, it's in the name of some kind of love or another. Even Jude's fight to keep you two a secret—I think that was out of love, too, don't you?"

Jess nodded solemnly. Dawson leaned over slightly, bumping her shoulder with his own. "That battle's over now, isn't it?"

A flicker of comprehension shot through Jessalyn's green eyes like a bolt of lightning. He was right—whatever she and Jude did next, it wouldn't be as part of a clandestine relationship.

Dawson felt a measure of satisfaction in seeing Keller's smile. There would still be plenty to unpack, in regards to why they hadn't trusted him in the first place, and what the next step forward would be, but right now, that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that he was here, waiting for the white knight to wake, and comforting her partner during the interim.

That was the thing about Jessalyn Keller, too, he realized. She was just as much a noble knight as Jude was. He could forgive them for the decisions they'd made, because it was done with the best of intentions, and firmly rooted in who they were. And honestly, he couldn't imagine them continuing without each other, in whatever mutual quest they'd begun.

* * *

" _If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are."_ _  
_ _~Kristin Hannah_ _._


	30. Times They Are A-Changing

**Times They Are A-Changing**

" _Friendship—my definition—is built on two things. Respect and trust. Both elements have to be there. And it has to be mutual. You can have respect for someone, but if you don't have trust, the friendship will crumble."_ _  
_ _~Stieg Larsson_ _._

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

William LaMontagne could feel his wife's gaze upon him, as clearly as if someone were holding an open flame next to his face. However, he steadfastly refused to make eye contact, instead keeping Henry curled up in his lap as they both watched some silly video on his phone with Sandy, who was leaned across the space between their two chairs. They'd installed themselves in the corner of the room, giving JJ and Emily a modicum of privacy so that they could play catch-up.

JJ knew. Even if she wasn't aware of all the details or even able to guess all the pieces in play, she had a pretty good idea of what was happening. Will tried to remind himself that the fact his wife's usual mental acuity was back in full-force was a good sign in regards to her recovery, he almost ( _almost_ ) wished that she was still out of it, still too groggy to notice all the things happening just outside her hospital room.

No stress, Doc Mellinger had said. JJ's body had been beaten to hell and back, and that wasn't something a person just sprang back from, no matter how strong they were. Part of that physical beating had an effect on her mental capabilities as well—although the doctor had predicted no long-term side effects, she had warned both Will and JJ that it would take some time before JJ was back to her former full capacity. Dr. Mellinger had warned that short-term memory loss, lower concentration, headaches, and dizzy spells could become a part of JJ's daily life for the next few months, possibly up to two years.

 _Your brain got short-circuited and forced into a temporary shut-down_ , Dr. Mellinger had explained earlier that morning, just before JJ was officially moved out of ICU. _It's gonna take a while to fully reboot—and even then, there might be some bugs it needs to work out…there's a possibility some things will remain permanently changed. We're talking about your most complex and vital organ, Jennifer. Recovery isn't something you can rush, and you certainly can't take it lightly._

Of course, JJ had nodded and gravely intoned that she understood, but her husband knew her well enough to know that in true Jennifer Jareau fashion, she'd planned to be the exception to every rule. She would will herself back into a perfect mirror of her former self, and she'd do it in a day, if she could. Her determination was awe-inspiring—and worrying.

And of course, Will never mentioned this aloud, because arguing about his wife's recovery wouldn't help the whole avoiding-stress thing.

Not that having the BAU tap-dancing around the bed with unspoken issues was exactly helpful, either.

Speak of the devil. Emily Prentiss quietly re-entered the room, ducking her head slightly as she slipped around the door and closed it behind her.

"Mom, why don't you take Henry for a walk?" It was cleverly disguised as a request, but Will LaMontagne was well aware of the command in his wife's tone.

Emily stopped, shooting Will a look of _Oh, shit, we're caught_.

"JJ," Will's voice was lined with gentle concern. Her blue eyes cut towards him with a look that immediately silenced whatever else he had to say.

"C'mon, sweetpea," Sandy was equally aware of the tension at play, but she forced a cheerful smile for her grandson's sake. "Let's go get a soda."

JJ didn't even point out that it was still well before noon and certainly too early for sugary soft drinks—a sure sign that she was intently focused on whatever she wanted to say next.

Heavy silence reigned until Sandy closed the door behind her and Henry. Despite her low tone, JJ's voice filled the room, slurred slightly by the gritting of her teeth, "What the hell is going on?"

"JJ, there's nothing going on," Emily infused her words with comforting assurance as she moved closer to her friend, shaking her head slightly to dispel whatever premonition the blonde had.

Now JJ fixed that cutting glare at her friend. "I may have hit my head, but I haven't lost my mind."

Emily stopped, instantly struck by the unspoken words that trailed behind JJ's declaration ( _and I've certainly never kept anything from you, Emily—even when it would have been easier for you, for me, I've always looked you in the eye and told the truth, so return the favor, for once_ ).

She stumbled over her own tongue, shocked by the vehemence of JJ's gaze and by just how viscerally a simple glance could affect her. "JJ, I—"

"Don't take this all out on Em, now," Will shifted, turning to fully face his wife.

"Oh, I don't plan on it," she looked back at him again. "You've been looking guilty as sin all morning—for days now, actually, now that I can think back and analyze it. Even Mr. Straight-Faced Aaron Hotchner was acting like he had something to hide. But you two are the only ones still here, and out of everyone, I expected you to be the last ones who ever lied to me."

"JJ." The hurt in Emily's tone was so thick, she could've cut it with a knife. Part of it was genuine, JJ knew, but part she suspected was to reel her back in and calm her down.

The brunette sat on the edge of the hospital bed and gingerly took JJ's hand in her own. Her voice remained low and calm, "JJ, you're seriously injured. And the BAU is still in the middle of a domestic terrorism case—which has blown up in the press to become one of the most-publicized cases they've ever worked. So yeah, there's a lot going on—and yeah, most of it's hell. But no one's keeping you out of the loop for spite or whatever the hell you think is going on. It's a case, and it's stressful, just like every other case—even more so—and there are parts that we don't mention because you've got enough stress to deal with and because, quite frankly, there isn't a damn thing you can do to change it."

The words were blunt, but truthful. Of course, JJ knew that being in the loop would have no bearing on the case's outcome. And of course, her team cared about her and wanted to shield her from unnecessary stress.

But that didn't explain why Emily was here. Or why Spencer and Matt weren't. Or why Emily's and Will's expressions of concern weren't quite right—as if they weren't worried about her, so much as they were worried about her buying whatever story they were selling.

She took a beat to spare a glance at both her husband and one of her dearest friends before quietly stating, "I love you both very much. But I really, _really_ hate being lied to. So either tell me the truth, or get the hell out."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Spencer Reid was slightly surprised when Section Chief Mateo Cruz walked through the door of his makeshift holding cell—throughout this entire ordeal, his superior officer had been absent, at least from Spencer's point of view. He wasn't sure what that had meant—either Cruz believed him to be guilty and therefore wanted no kind of association, or Cruz believed him innocent and his vehement defense had made the Flying Js banish him from the room.

Spencer was too exhausted to try and figure out which scenario was more probable. Instead, he merely watched Cruz with a tired patience, not even bothering to get up from his current position, which was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Matt Cruz was immediately struck by how small and how still Dr. Reid looked—over the past few months, he'd come to learn that the doctor was a spindly bundle of frenetic energy, and even when his limbs were still, his brain was constantly whirring with facts and connections. But right now, the exhaustion in every fiber of Reid's body made it look as if he'd shut down completely, as if he were merely a wax-figure recreation of himself—the usual spark behind his eyes was missing, the muscles of his face were uncharacteristically slack, and his usual slightly-off-kilter wardrobe seem like freshly pressed ceremonial blues compared to his current disheveled clothing. Thankfully Dr. Reid had been allowed to have his go-bag, so at least he was in fresh clothes, but he hadn't had the assistance of a mirror and, understandably, he hadn't really cared about his appearance.

Cruz stopped for a full beat, staring open-mouthed at the strange and fearful transformation in front of him. Then he regained his composure, quietly closing the door behind him as he cleared his throat. He had a job to do ( _finally!_ )—Jack Dawson had called a few minutes earlier and had instructed him to interview Dr. Reid about any possible connection to Maura Morrow. Although Cruz and O'Donnell had remained part of the investigation from the start, this was the first time that Dawson had allowed either of them to truly step in and _do_ something. O'Donnell and Cruz had privately discussed the very distinct possibility that Dawson wasn't laying all his cards on the table with them, but they'd also understood his need for secrecy, given the leaks that had happened earlier in the investigation. Dawson's request implied a new level of trust, and Cruz welcomed it. To add to the feeling of relief, it had been obvious that Dawson was leaning towards releasing Reid, which meant he was beginning to believe the man's innocence—Cruz had never truly given up his belief in Reid's innocence, but he'd been trained to be a good and faithful soldier, following orders and trusting the will of those in charge. The truth would always out, as the saying went, and in this case, it was slowly making itself known. Soon everything would be right again, with just a little more patience and a helluva lot more hard work. At least now they were bringing Reid back into the game—the man whose intellect, in Cruz's opinion, was their greatest untapped resource on this case.

Despite Reid's wan appearance, Cruz could still feel those eyes following his every move as he dragged the desk chair closer to the spot where Reid was currently seated. When he looked back up into the young doctor's face, he didn't see suspicion or even anxiety—merely curiosity.

"Have you ever met someone named Maura Morrow?" Cruz cut to the chase. God knows, the poor man had been in enough suspense over the past few days.

Now Reid's face took on a more familiar expression as he frowned slightly, his brain churning back to life as it zipped through his impressive memory. "No—at least I don't think so. I know of a Doctor Maura Morrow, a handwriting analyst—"

"Who worked on the Amerithrax case with Alex Blake and John Curtis." Cruz finished with a slight wave of his hand, implying that Reid was referring to the correct person.

The younger man shook his head. "We've never met. I would definitely remember."

"But is there any other way that you might have had some kind of…run-in with her?"

"A run-in?" Reid looked at the man as if he'd grown a second head.

"I mean, have you ever had a disagreement over some kind of…data or technique or theory—maybe you publicly criticized the handling of the Amerithrax case—"

"I have never criticized the Amerithrax case, neither publicly or privately," Reid quickly interjected. "And I've never commented on any of her work, or publicly discussed anything within her field of expertise which could be misconstrued as some kind of criticism or barb directed at her."

"OK," Cruz gave a curt nod, as if he'd suspected as much. Reid appreciated that the man simply took him at his word, didn't push for further confirmation—Cruz believed him, and trusted him. A week ago, that would have been a given, but after the events of the past few days, it was a welcome reassurance.

"Why are you asking me these questions?" Reid was curious, not confrontational. He already knew the answer, Cruz realized. The younger man just wanted confirmation.

There was a beat of silence as Cruz took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, quietly admitting, "We have proof that Dr. Morrow kidnapped Linnea Charles. She also has a direct connection to John Curtis, which might begin to explain the similarities in the case—especially if we continue with your apprentice theory."

Reid took a moment to simply look at his section chief—so they had figured out his Morse Code stunt with Blake. Cruz offered a wan smile ( _yeah, we cracked the code_ ). Reid found that he wasn't surprised. He knew that it was only a matter of time before someone other than Blake realized that he'd been using Morse Code, but he'd hoped that his team had a head start, at least.

Now wasn't the time to mourn the failed execution of his clever plan. Instead, Reid sat up straighter, his brain returning to its usual rapid-fire pace. "She has to be the apprentice. Her manipulation of Benjamin Fuller—that was her way of stepping into Curtis' shoes, proving she could do what he did with Donnie Bidwell."

Cruz gave a solemn nod of understanding. Since Reid's apprentice theory had been mentioned, Cruz had taken the time to go back over the Replicator case, particularly the section involving Bidwell. He pointed out quietly, "But Bidwell was already angry at his wife and at the cops for ruining his life, so it was easier to misdirect his anger for Curtis' own twisted purpose. That wasn't the case with Benjamin Fuller. By all accounts, he had no reason to hate the FBI."

"And yet Dr. Morrow was still able to take someone who was loyal to the Bureau and turn him into one of its greatest threats," the younger man pointed out quietly.

"So she's more powerful, in terms of manipulation," Cruz followed the rest of Reid's unspoken reasoning.

"Technically, yes—if we're going by Curtis' scoring system," Reid held up his index finger as a gesture of caution. The fact that he was back to talking with his hands was a good sign, in Cruz's book. "But we're talking about a female UNSUB here—this changes the game, in almost every scenario. Her motivations will be different, her reactions, everything."

"So, she's not doing this to prove that she's smarter than Curtis and the FBI?"

"That maybe a welcome byproduct of her work—but it's not the driving force behind it, much less the end goal." Reid frowned slightly now, "Even as impersonal as a bombing attack may seem, when it comes to female UNSUBs, it generally has to be personal. She's not proving a point…she's _regaining_ a point."

"What, like, revenge?"

Reid nodded quickly, hoisting himself onto his feet again with a sense of purpose. Cruz sat back, watching him with a mixture of relief and curiosity.

"We need to look into Morrow's past," Reid informed him, a rather unnecessary statement. "There has to be a motive—and it has to be big. Not some little slight or a caustic comment—"

"Losing her standing as an authority in her field of expertise due to the Amerithrax case isn't a big enough motive?"

Reid frowned, giving a slight shake of his head. "It's not personal enough."

"It was for John Curtis."

"The Bureau was Curtis' life. He had no family, nothing outside of work to add any kind of meaning to his life—I don't think that was the case with Morrow."

"I'll have Sura Roza start digging, if she hasn't already," Cruz rose to his feet. "She's a little preoccupied at the moment—apparently Dr. Morrow flew to England overnight, using her sister's passport and identity. Roza's currently interfacing with Interpol to see if we can confirm that it was Morrow, and to see how far we can track her from there."

"Interpol?" Reid stopped for a moment, his face blank with surprise.

"Emily Prentiss is pulling some strings," Cruz informed him with a slight shrug.

For the briefest of flashes, a smile wavered at the corner of the young doctor's mouth. Emily was aware of the situation, and she was doing whatever she could to help. The thought was comforting.

Cruz moved to the door, giving a slight pat on Reid's shoulder as he went past. "Hang in there, Doc. Just hang in there."

"How's JJ?" Reid turned to follow him.

Now Cruz stopped. With a slight grimace, he admitted, "I haven't been to see her yet. She's…still recovering. It was touch and go for a while, so—"

"Touch and go? What do you mean, touch and go?"

"She's fine now. She just—she had a few seizures, and there was a secondary surgery—"

"And no one thought this was information that I would like to know?" The near-frantic pitch in the younger man's voice was a sure sign of his concern.

"Things have been crazy, it's—"

"There isn't any excuse," Reid cut him off, his tone quick and harsh. "She's my best friend. She's my _family_. I should have been informed."

"And what would that have done?" Cruz challenged, his calm and quiet voice a juxtaposition to the other man's frantic energy. "You can't go anywhere, you can't make phone calls—hell, I'm sorry I even mentioned it because at this point, you're still on lockdown. Your knowledge of the situation would have done absolutely nothing to change it in any way."

"That's not the point and you know it," Reid informed him. Then he took a deep breath, reset himself, and quietly asked, "Is she really OK?"

"Yes," Cruz's tone was equally soft, tinged with regret. After all, he understood Reid's worry and his anger over not being informed. "She was moved out of ICU earlier this morning. She's back on solid foods, she's up and responsive. Despite her setbacks, the doctors are still saying she's one of the fastest recoveries they've seen so far."

Now Reid gave a wry, single, mirthless laugh. Cruz gave a pinched smile of agreement. They were thinking the exact same thing.

Of course she was the exception to the rule— _typical JJ_.

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

"JJ, you have to calm down," Will was on his feet now, holding out his hand in a gesture of caution. "Doc Mellinger said you can't get worked up over things—"

"Then stop giving me a reason to get worked up," his wife retorted quickly, her tone sharpened with frustration. She knew that he was right, but she also knew that he was using the doctor's orders as a shield to keep her from the truth. She cast another glance at Emily, "The sooner you tell me what's really going on, the sooner I can calm down."

Emily's mouth merely set in a small, thin line, and JJ suddenly realized that whatever it was, it had to be worse than she'd imagined.

"Is…has someone…is someone hurt?" Her lungs contracted and her mind flashed to the only two people who hadn't been in her room that morning—Matt and Spence.

"Everyone is safe, physically," Emily reassured her gently, moving closer again. She began to lightly rub JJ's left shoulder, the sling on its corresponding arm keeping her from applying too much actual pressure. The brunette gave Will a beseeching glance.

William LaMontagne hated how helpless he felt in that moment. Either option would only bring more stress into his wife's life, and either option would leave her angry and upset over the fact that he was keeping information about her family from her.

He took a deep breath and quietly sat on the other side of the bed, gently placing his hand on her leg. "JJ, I need you to keep calm, no matter what."

"You know I can't promise that, even if I wanted to," his wife informed him. If the situation hadn't been quite so serious, he would've laughed. But all sense of humor had abandoned him.

He could feel Emily's gaze locked on his face, as if she were trying to telepathically relay her own strength into him—and he knew that she'd shoulder the burden of being the bearer of bad news, if he asked her to. That was one of the many points of connection between him and his wife's former colleague—their sense of sacrifice, their desire to always carry more than their fellow friends, not out of pride or ego, but out of loyalty and love.

But this wasn't Emily's cross to bear. Will had been the one, from the get-go, who'd kept JJ sequestered from the events of the case. He'd shielded her from the truth, and he'd be the one who told her that same truth, in the end. It was only fair.

So he took another long, unsteady breath, and said, "JJ, almost since the beginning of this case, the evidence has been pointing to Spencer—"

"No, he'd never," she bolted upright, as if she were ready to physically jump to his defense. Both Emily and Will moved to hold her back, making small noises of disapproval and comfort, respectively.

"Just lemme finish," he instructed, his voice firm but not unkind. She sat back, her face still stricken with terror, but the trust in her eyes still shone like a hopeful beacon (and for that, Will said a quick prayer of thanks—she still trusted him, which meant on some level, she understood why he'd done what he did, and eventually, she'd even forgive him). He continued, keeping his tone calm and level, "We all know he didn't have any part of this, but the team running the investigation doesn't know him like we do—and apparently, there's been some pretty rock solid evidence."

Here Emily Prentiss made a small hum of agreement, although her face was lined with regret. However, she kept silent and let Will continue.

"They have him in custody, for now. Now the BAU has been working like the devil to prove his innocence—"

"And at this point, we've be able to do a pretty damn good job of it," Emily spoke up now. "Right now, we're tracking down the woman who's behind the whole thing, and as soon as we have her in custody and she admits that Reid wasn't involved, it'll all be over."

"A woman?" JJ was surprised. Her mind went back to the more important matter, "But what if she lies? What if she still claims that Reid _was_ involved?"

"She won't." Emily promised, fully aware of the fact that she really had no way to prevent such a thing. "We won't let her. By the time we're done, she'll be buried so deep in a federal prison that we'll never had to worry about her again."

JJ squeezed her friend's hand, as if silently making a pact. Emily held on just as tightly, her eyes locked onto the blonde's.

Will understood that he was witnessing an agreement of victory between two of the strongest, most determined women he'd ever known.

For the briefest of flashes, he actually felt sorry for the woman responsible for Reid's troubles. Because with JJ and Emily against her, she didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell.

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

"No way in hell are we letting this Morrow woman get away," Morgan announced to no one in particular as he helped Garcia settle into her desk chair. Despite her insistence that she use crutches, he'd kept his arm around her torso the entire trip from the car to her apartment. Garcia knew that he was simply being his usual gallant self, but part of her wondered if it was a subconscious reaction to the events of the past few days—he still wanted to keep her physically in his grasp, to know and to feel that she really was still there, still with him. She'd understood needing reassurances like that, and so she hadn't put up too much of a fight about letting him help her along, although the voice at the back of her mind warned that this wasn't part of the whole let's-put-some-distance-between-us plan.

What could she say? She was a weak woman. She could only fight so many battles at a time, and her dance card was full.

Today's priority was finally proving Reid's innocence and getting him out of custody. Everyone had sensed a change in the tide when Hotch had returned from his chat with Dawson at the hospital. Dawson's openness had signaled a new turn in the relationship between the BAU and the investigating team, and they could only hope that it continued.

"Garcia, where are we on the email situation?" Hotch was entering the apartment as smoothly as he would the briefing room, as if this were just an ordinary day on an ordinary case. Blake, Rossi, and Callahan were close behind him.

"I can answer that in about three minutes, sir," she informed him.

"We stayed up all night culling through the rest of the potential copy-cat cases," Blake spoke up, closing Penelope's front door behind her and momentarily shutting out the rest of the world. "We couldn't find a single case that had enough points in common with this attack."

Morgan and Callahan made small sounds of agreement—they obviously had come to the same conclusion.

"So it's not a replication of a previous attack," Hotch surmised. He wasn't surprised by the result, and for a moment, he felt a flash of frustration for the time wasted on such a rabbit trail—of course, they wouldn't have known it was a rabbit trail until they followed it, but still. The sensation of constantly running without ever gaining ground only intensified, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"Curtis' apprentice has stopped following the script," Rossi stated, taking a moment to give his friend a sympathetic glance—he understood the underlying frustration, but there was nothing to be done about it at this point. Instead, he focused on the new information they'd learned, "And the apprentice is a woman. A total game-changer."

"So…we go from professional to personal," Blake's long index finger imitated the jump. "But for Curtis, it was personal. And Maura—I mean, she suffered just like the rest of us, but not personally, I don't think."

"Did you keep in contact, after the case was closed?" Hotch asked, face meticulously impassive as always.

"Briefly. A few emails here and there. We didn't chat on the phone or send each other Christmas cards, if that's what you're asking," Blake shrugged slightly. "I mean, in reality, we worked together for a few months. The case was tough, everybody bonded in the way that you do, when you're on a case like that, but we got sent off, and eventually everybody went back to their lives."

"Garcia, you'll need to dig into Maura Morrow's personal life. See what else we can find," Hotch informed her.

"Aye, sir. But first, allow me to dazzle you with my brilliance."

Everyone stopped and turned to fully face Garcia's in-home work station at that pronouncement—Penelope might be flashy and a little hyperbolic at times, but when it came to her work abilities, she never fell short of her proclamations.

The technical analyst was currently glued to her computer screen, fingers flying like they were possessed of their own spirits as window after window popped up on her monitor, each quickly screen capped and saved. However, adept multi-tasker that she was, Penelope was still able to narrate as she continued her work, "I had a friend—let's just say a source, a reputable, talented source, whom I can't reveal—who got me access to Reid's data usage records for the past three weeks. Technically, it's a bit raw—this stuff hasn't been compiled into his monthly bill at this point, but it's all here, waiting. From this, we can see if there is or was a spike in his data usage—"

"Which would imply that someone had hacked his phone with that program-thingy." Rossi was obviously proud of himself for being able to make the connection.

"Correct-amundo, my fine Italian friend." Penelope's right hand left the keyboard long enough to give a congratulatory wave in Rossi's direction. "Now, interestingly enough, we can see a sudden uptick in usage right about…three days ago. And then, since then, there's been nothing."

"Well, Reid did lose his phone," Callahan pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's been turned on again," Penelope reminded her. More images flew across the screen, too quick for the others to truly follow. "The Flying Js have it, and have had it turned on at least long enough to prove that he didn't have a program on there, and that the email was sent from his phone. Now, if the program was still there, it would still be sucking up data, reporting everything back to the mothership."

"But that isn't happening," Hotch clarified.

"Nope. In fact, it stopped happening the day of the bombing." Penelope paused for a moment, leaned forward to inspect a window of information, then grinned again, "And it only happened on that day. Like, the program installed itself around 1 a.m., and then uninstalled itself around 10 a.m. that morning."

"And you can prove that's what happened?" Blake was slightly incredulous.

Now Penelope stopped her work, turning to look at the room full of profilers. "Well, no. Of course not. The program isn't _there_ anymore—I can't prove that it ever was, that's kinda the whole point of the program itself."

"So this whole scenario is circumstantial," Blake spoke again slowly, her hands widening in a gesture of futility.

"Hey, it's a helluva lot more than we had before," Morgan stepped forward. His tone was quiet but his body language was definitely defensive.

"I'm not saying it isn't," Blake's expressive hands swiveled into a sign of surrender. However, she still had a point to prove, "But is it enough to convince Dawson to release Reid?"

The room was quiet as the question hung like the proverbial ax overhead.

"How do we go from circumstantial to concrete, Garcia?" Hotch's calm voice broke the silence.

"Well," the blonde shifted in her seat again, returning to her computer. "You'd have to find the origin point—the computer where all of this was set up, the place sending out the commands to Reid's phone."

"How do we do that?" Morgan set his hands on his hips, feeling a surge of confidence and determination—if anyone could make it happen, it was his BabyGirl, and the day was still young. She could have this whole thing cracked by dinnertime, if she put her mind to it.

"We don't. The FBI does." Penelope was grinning again, this time with her characteristic mischievousness. "It's time to call the technical analyst handling the investigation. Sura Roza can send this info onto the information technology section, and they'll do all the heavy lifting for us— _and_ it'll all be documented and legit, which is a double-plus."

"Then let's get Roza on the phone," Morgan motioned to Penelope's cell.

At this point, David Rossi was glancing at his own mobile device. He had a call of his own to make.

* * *

 _ **National Women's History Museum. Washington, D.C.**_

Jordan Strauss sternly told herself that she absolutely would not look at her phone again. Then she promptly did the exact opposite.

Her lockscreen stared back at her, devoid of any notifications of missed calls or texts. She slipped the offensively blank-faced device into the back pocket of her jeans, pushing her legs to move double-time as she skirted around a cordon and through the darkened labyrinth of the museum's east wing, where their latest exhibit was still under construction— _Behind the Badge: A Historical Look at Women in Law Enforcement_.

She wouldn't deny that her mother had greatly influenced her choice of subject—in fact, Jordan had first compiled her proposal for the exhibit before Erin's death. She had been in the process of being "poached" by the National Women's Museum from her then-position at the National Museum for Women in the Arts, and she'd been explicit on the fact that if the NWM would pre-approve this exhibit proposal, she would accept their offer of employment. It had been a done deal—she'd planned on announcing the news to her mother at their usual Sunday family brunch, but Erin hadn't made it to that brunch, or any brunch thereafter. John Curtis had stolen her life, and with it, some parts of her children's lives as well.

After the tragedy, the project had been shelved, and Jordan had taken a few months' leave to regroup and relearn how to live in a world without her mother. It had been another year before she was able to look at the proposal again, and now, almost two years since Erin's death, she was finally turning the idea into a reality.

As with so many other aspects of her life, Jordan wished her mother could be here to see it—like most people, Jordan had learned too late that she hadn't expressed her love and her gratitude often enough when Erin was still alive, and this symbolized just another lost chance to show her mother how inspirational she'd been to her children.

Mothers left life before you did. That was the way of things, the natural order of the world. Jordan understood that. But they weren't supposed to leave before you had figured it all out, before you didn't need them anymore. Though the older she got, the more Jordan realized that perhaps you never stopped needing your parents.

She remembered her grandfather's funeral. Her mother had been in her early fifties by then. As the family had sat in the back of the long black limousine, Uncle Peter had quietly whispered, _We're orphans now_. Mother had simply reached out and squeezed Uncle Peter's hand so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. It had been a moment of revelation in Jordan's life—that even though her mother and her aunt and her uncles were all adults, all in their mid-life years, they were still, in fact, orphans. Because no matter how old they were, their parents were still their parents, and they still felt adrift without them.

She understood that on an even deeper level now. Her life had been permanently altered, completely remolded by the loss of her mother—not just by the loss, but by the senselessness of it, the violence, the vehemence, the unfairness of it all.

Jordan wasn't even thirty yet. She still had a lot of big mistakes to make—how on earth could she navigate those mistakes without her mother to help?

She had the sinking feeling that currently, she was making just such a mistake. Another glance at her phone only further confirmed it. It had been over twelve hours since she'd heard from Dora Carrington—since the brunette had stormed out of her house and perhaps out of her life, furious over Jordan's seemingly-cavalier attitude about Linnea Charles' disappearance and its connection to the Bureau bombing.

Of course, Carrington was furious over other things, too. Even if she'd never admit them.

Maybe that was the real problem. There was a huge frakkin' elephant in room and neither one was addressing it—but their mutual silence wasn't keeping it at bay. In fact, it seemed to only make the elephant grow larger.

Jordan Elaine Strauss was her mother's child. She had her mother's eyes and her mother's pride, and the idea of being the first one to reach out was almost physically painful—it was a capitulation, a willful bending of her neck for Carrington's heel.

But was it any more painful than her current limbo? She supposed that all depended on Carrington's response. At this point, it seemed like 50-50 odds on either outcome.

 _You'll never know for sure unless you try_. It was her mother's voice, echoing in her head. That was the advice Erin had given when Jordan had first decided to take an internship with the National Museum for Women in the Arts. She'd convinced herself that she wasn't qualified enough, that she couldn't possibly be a contender for such a position. Her mother had quietly rebutted with that simple statement—and the next morning when Jordan had come downstairs for breakfast, there was a printed out copy of the application, her mother's way of silently telling her _just do it_.

She'd followed that advice, and had landed the internship—and had spent almost two years at the museum, continuing to work there long after she'd graduated college. That had launched her into her current job at the National Women's Museum—a job that she loved and felt perfectly suited for.

The longing for her mother stabbed harder than usual, a physical pang between her lungs.

That was Carrington's problem, too. She missed Erin—in a different way, but missed her and mourned her loss all the same. Not for the first time, Jordan wondered if everything that had happened between them had simply been some kind of transference of affection and attraction on Carrington's part.

 _You'll never know for sure unless you ask_.

Jordan looked at her phone again.

"Pride, adieu," she whispered mockingly—it was an old phrase her brother Christopher used to toss out before doing something stupid.

She dialed Carrington's number. There was no answer, and she didn't know what to say in a voicemail, so she simply hung up.

In all the times she'd called Dora Carrington, this was the first time that the woman hadn't answered, regardless of the day or time.

Jordan felt like it was a sign.

* * *

" _I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you."_ _  
~_ _Erin Morgenstern._

* * *

 ** _*Author's Note: You can read more about Erin Strauss' brother Peter (who is undoubtedly my favorite Strauss sibling) in Pay the Piper.*_**


	31. Steps in the Right Direction

**Steps in the Right Direction**

 _"Honey, my intentions are way past flirting."_

 _~Janet Evanovich._

* * *

 _ **Maura's Rental House. Alexandria, Virginia.**_

In terms of evidence collection in general, Maura Morrow's home was chaos. However, when compared to the blast site at the Bureau, it suddenly seemed infinitely less daunting. At least Morrow had kept her home in order, and the only real area of issue was the garage, where the SUV had blown up. But even then, the bomb had been poorly constructed, and there had been more fire than actual boom. Mac had assigned a few evidence collection techs from Quantico to dust the house for fingerprints, while she and Shostakovich covered the blast site, along with Masterson and Lewis. The garage was a bit of a mess, but still only a quarter of the size of their last explosion, so there was some kind of silver lining.

Mac knew that Dawson was hoping for definitive proof that Linnea Charles had been in the vehicle. Sadly, she knew that wasn't going to happen—she could, at least, declare that Linnea's body wasn't still in there at the time of the explosion, which had to be some cause for relief. But as for the rest, the blast itself, coupled with the high power pressure hoses used to put out the fire, had done too much damage to gather anything as minute as a strand of hair or other genetic material.

Still, she and her crew could collect all the components of the bomb, along with samples of ash and burned bits of the SUV, and determine how it was made and with what compounds. Every bomb had its own unique signature, and the pieces that made up the whole could tell an investigator a lot about its creator.

With a light sigh, Rowena Lewis stepped out of the garage, out onto the lawn. She removed her protective glasses and her face mask before slipping out of her latex gloves, putting them in the left pocket of her jumpsuit as she retrieved a small vial of Visine from her right pocket. After so many days of working around soot and smoke, her eyes had become red and irritated. She turned her face heavenward, adding a few drops to her eyes and blinking rapidly as she tried to flush out all the bits of debris that had inevitably found their way onto her sclera, hissing slightly at the burn that accompanied the drops.

"Y'alright?" Jonas Shotakovich was walking back up the driveway, face etched with a look of genuine concern. He'd stepped away to take a phone call, but for the most part, he'd kept with earshot of the crew at all times, ready for any piece of information that he could immediately relay back to his team.

"Nope." She answered honestly. Then she pasted on a brilliantly false smile, "But then again, none of us are."

He gave a dry smile at the remark, obviously agreeing. Then he raised his voice, commanding the attention of Macaraeg and Masterson as well. "That was Agent Dawson on the phone. Apparently, Maura Morrow took a flight to London last night. We've got Interpol coordinating with Roza on making a positive ID."

"Interpol?" Rowena perked up.

Shostakovich nodded.

Roe looked over at Jeff with a grin.

"Emily," was all she said, and all that she needed to say.

"How's Agent Eden?" Mac asked, her brows knitting in compassionate concern, her voice slightly muffled by her face mask. Even if she hadn't noticed Shostakovich's distracted air, or the way he was incessantly checking his phone as if hoping he'd somehow missed a call or a text with good news, she was well aware of the bond between agents on a team and how it affected them when one of their own was injured.

"Stable. For now." He didn't seem too relieved by the prognosis, and the others understood that Eden wasn't officially out of the woods just yet.

Mac's cellphone buzzed, and she frowned slightly when she didn't recognize the number. Still, it was a D.C. area code, so she pulled her mask down and answered. "Macaraeg speaking."

"And what a lovely sound it is." David Rossi's voice was unmistakable, and so was the teasing infused in the words.

Mac instinctively moved away from the group, walking further down the driveway—not because she felt that this conversation might not need to be overheard, but because she was already fighting a grin and she really didn't want witnesses to how ridiculous she was being. However, her tone betrayed none of her emotions as she flatly but not unkindly intoned, "What can I do for you, Agent Rossi?"

"We heard about the explosion."

She didn't ask who _we_ was, or how they'd heard the news. Instead, she merely set her protective glasses atop her head and said. "And?"

"And I wanted to know if you've found a body yet—specifically Linnea Charles' body."

So they knew Linnea Charles was confirmed as kidnapped and missing. Adelaide Macaraeg felt zero sense of surprise at how well-informed the BAU was.

"Why don't you ask Dawson?" She looked up at the heavens for a moment, adding the slightest hint of taunting to her tone.

"Because you're much more pleasant to talk to," came the smooth reply, and she gave a huff of a laugh at the statement. David Rossi certainly could be charming, when he put his mind to it. The little _danger danger_ alarm went off in the back of her mind, but she'd long ago learned how to ignore it. However, she did keep in mind the real issue at hand—the BAU technically wasn't part of the loop anymore, and as charming as Rossi was, she couldn't compromise the flow of information in this case. There had already been enough setbacks. And to make matters worse, everyone was at least vaguely aware of the fact that the BAU was taking the cowboy's way and as a matter of principle, she didn't approve.

She kept these thoughts to herself and simply said, "I'm not telling you, Rossi."

"I know," was his simple return.

"You know?" She was taken aback by the easy confession. Surprise was quickly replaced by a sense of mischief. "So…what? You called just to flirt?"

Now it was Rossi's turn to laugh. She could still feel him grinning as he said, "Well, what better way could I start my day, really?"

 _Oh, I can think of a few_. Thank God her filter was still in good working order, because that was an invitation to open a door that she should not want to open ( _shouldn't_ want to…but did she really not want to?). She merely rolled her eyes—half in response to Rossi's foolishness, half in response to her own.

Rossi must have sensed her hesitancy, because he easily retreated to safer ground, "I also hear that you've sent the list to another handwriting analyst."

Of course he knew about that, too. Mac briefly wondered if the BAU had bugged everyone else's phones.

"I did," she admitted. Confirming this bit of information wouldn't alter the course of the case, she decided, although her internal warning system also pointed out that it was a slippery slope, playing fast and loose with sharing protocol. "I sent it to a friend in New York. She's not a handwriting analyst by trade, per se, but she's still one of the best people for the job—she's meticulous to a fault, which is exactly what you want when it comes to something like this. I know Dawson had agreed to let the BAU choose the analyst, but I was never given a name, so…."

"No, it's good—the person we were going to get recommendations from turned out to be Dr. Morrow—"

"You're kidding me."

"God's honest truth."

"The truth really is stranger than fiction," Mac marveled at how small the world really could be, at times.

Rossi made a small hum of agreement.

She added, "But if you do find another analyst that you want me to forward the evidence to, please, let me know."

"Thank you," he said, and she knew that he meant it. Then his tone turned wry again, "I have to admit, I like it when a woman shows initiative."

He was hinting at the kiss again, and Mac felt her ears turn red. However, she simply cleared her throat and warned, "You know, you're beginning to make me regret my impulsiveness."

"Oh please don't. I know I don't regret it."

An amused hum slipped out of her throat before she could stop it—it was lower and more sensuous-sounding than she'd intended, and she immediately cringed, prayed to God that Rossi didn't notice or at least didn't mention it. A beat of awkward silence reigned.

Rossi's voice filled the quiet again, however, his playfulness had subsided, "Honestly, I just wanted to check in. See how everything went. Drew can be a bit much sometimes, but he means well."

Drew was the pilot whom Rossi had contracted for Mac's private flight to Madison, Wisconsin for her daughter's college graduation—a gift that had come without strings or expectations, a gift that she still wasn't sure how to reciprocate.

"He was great," Mac assured him. "A bit old-school, but he knew how to fly a plane and really, that was my only concern."

Drew Corbin had been a bit gruff, in a bumbling, kindly way—he'd referred to her as _little lady_ , and for once, she hadn't minded the epithet, mainly because she didn't detect the usual malice and degradation that had accompanied every other occasion in which she'd been referred to as such.

Rossi gave a hum of agreement. Then, the infamously smooth-tongued man seemed at a loss for words.

"Thank you, again," Mac's own words lurched forward, and she felt a pang of guilt at the fact that she hadn't thanked him as soon as she'd answered the phone.

"Oh, no—that wasn't—I wasn't calling just to hear you express gratitude," he spoke quickly, trying to allay whatever uneasiness she might have felt. "I didn't do it for that—I just…I wanted to make sure that it went OK. That is was…a pleasant experience, I guess."

Jesus Christ. He was too sweet. Mac pressed her lips into a thin line to keep from blurting out as much. She got her stupid grin back under control and quietly said, "It was. It was better than pleasant—absolutely wonderful. Although my family is now convinced I may be living a double life as some kind of secret agent."

Rossi laughed at the idea, and she felt a wave of relief that at least he didn't seem unsure of his footing any more. But relief melted into something else as the same thought that had been nagging her for almost twenty four hours rose up in full force again—how did he know her sister? What sort of relationship had Rossi and Joan developed over their years of mutual book tours? Rossi had a reputation for being a ladies' man and Joan, well…she may have been named after a saint, but the resemblance ended there.

Adelaide Macaraeg would never embarrass herself by asking outright. And she wouldn't do it over the phone, either. She'd mention her sister another time, when she was in-person with David—and she'd watch his face, gauge his reaction, and go from there. She'd learned the hard way that phone conversations can be a liar's best tool—you can school your voice to sound a certain way, and the other person can't read your face to know the truth.

"Well, I'm glad it went well," Rossi interrupted her thoughts. She could tell that he was smiling, but softly this time. She both loved and feared the idea that she was the reason.

"Me, too." Despite her conflicting thoughts, she was smiling, too. "Thank you again—even if you don't want to hear it, I am very grateful. It wouldn't have been possible without your help."

"Ah, it would have been possible," he was waving away the praise. "Maybe not as pleasant, but still possible."

She chuckled in agreement. "I have to admit, the whole private jet thing is _very_ pleasant."

She glanced back down the driveway, where Lewis and Masterson were still busy collecting bomb fragments for testing. "Look, I've gotta get back to work, Rossi—"

"So…no answer on the body?"

"I will neither confirm nor deny."

"That's alright. Dawson did tell us."

"So that whole opening gambit—"

"A clever ruse to start a conversation. Not my best, but sometimes we have to work with what we've got, Mac."

"Don't work too hard," she warned, and although she'd been entirely serious, her tone didn't get the memo—it was still teasingly playful.

"Some things are worth a little extra work," he informed her philosophically.

That little warning voice in Mac's head went to full-scale screeching Klaxons. Quickly, she said, "See you soon, Rossi."

"Oh, a man can hope."

She hung up without waiting for further reply. Somehow, she knew he was still grinning like a Cheshire cat on the other end.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

With everyone gone hither, thither, and yon, the Academy seemed unnaturally quiet. Even the small space that had become the Flying Js' temporary HQ seemed larger without any other bodies occupying it. Not that Sura Roza minded. She did her best work when left the hell alone. However that would not be—the stillness and the space were suddenly filled with ringing, and she pounced on her phone, answering before she even looked at the caller ID. "What's up?"

"Ah, is this Technical Analyst Roza?" The voice was feminine and unfamiliar.

"Yes, it is," Roza tamped down a slight wave of irritation. The only people she wanted to hear from right now where either her team or Viega and Federer, who were handling other aspects of data analysis. "And who are you?"

"I'm Penelope Garcia, I am the technical—"

"I know who you are." The voice might have been unfamiliar, but the name was not. Roza had logged in details of Dawson and Eden's interview with Penelope Garcia, and had briefly researched the technical analyst assigned to the BAU.

"Oh. Well, good." Garcia seemed a little flustered at first, but quickly regained her footing, "Here's something you may not know: I'm about to become your favorite person on this case."

Roza highly doubted that, but she kept her mouth shut.

"Where are you on the investigation into Dr. Reid's cellphone?" Garcia's voice pitched upwards with the question, and suddenly she sounded much younger than Roza had originally imagined.

"I'm not sure I can share that information with you."

"Well, actually, you don't have to. I'm calling to share information with _you_." Garcia seemed completely unfazed by Roza's flat tone. In fact, she was positively chipper. "Now, I know that you've already confirmed that there isn't a remote access program installed on Dr. Reid's phone—but if someone could install it, then they could also uninstall it, so—"

"So you went looking for data usage reports." Roza had already thought of such a thing herself. In fact, Dawson had thrown together a warrant for Reid's cell phone data, which was still under review.

"Yes. And I think you'll like what I found."

"Found? You couldn't have _found_ anything. If there is an uptake in data usage, it would have most likely only been in the last few days—that data is not even collated for the monthly usage report yet."

"I have skills, Miss Roza."

"It's Mrs. Roza, and that's…impossible. We're still waiting on the warrant for—"

"I have my ways."

Sura Roza suddenly realized that she should have read Penelope Garcia's employee file with a more attentive eye. Of course, Garcia was too smart to openly confess to anything illegal, but almost everyone in the data world knew that you didn't protect your sources out of journalistic integrity—most of the time, you protected them because they weren't obtained through the most law-abiding of methods.

She also realized that any further questioning of Garcia's "ways" would only result in more evasive phrasing and meaningless talk. So instead, she went to the next problem, "You do realize that, as a member of the BAU, everything you say is biased by default, right? Guilt by association, all that jazz."

"I do, and I get it—I'm sure I'd be just as wary, if I were in your shoes." Again, Penelope Garcia's cheerfulness never skipped a beat. "Which is why I'm sending you all of this."

As if on cue, Roza's computer dinged with a notification: _New Email from P. Garcia_.

Oh, this girl was good. Better than good.

Penelope Garcia might have had a personal bias, but her professional work was beyond solid. Everything Roza could possibly want was enclosed. She saw another flutter of a notification—Garcia had requested a read receipt, so she was aware that Sura was already reading over the files. She quietly waited on the other end as Sura skimmed through the collection.

"Garcia, what did you do before you came to the FBI?" Roza asked, half-distracted by the information on her screen. This level of organization, and the nature of the data itself, was something very few analysts could pull off in such a small timeframe.

"Vigilante justice," came the easy and still-optimistic reply. Roza would have laughed, except she was still too invested in her reading—and she also got the distinct feeling that it wasn't a joke.

However, Roza still had to retain some aura of skepticism. "You're obviously talented, Garcia, I'll give you that—but a person of your skill level could also forge these kinds of documents in her sleep—"

"I could, and maybe, once upon a time, I have." Again, the confession came so effortlessly, so calmly that Roza knew it was the stone-cold truth. "But this isn't one of those times. I can give you the links I used to access the data, but I wouldn't recommend trying them out on a federal computer—or really on any other computer than the one I've built myself. She's an absolute ninja, and really, you can't trust anything else."

"I'd believe it," Roza admitted.

"If you're still skeptical, you can come here, to me—I can take you through it all, prove that I'm not—"

"No, no, I—I believe you, even if perhaps I shouldn't." That confession came as easily as Garcia's had, and Roza felt no shame in it.

"That's the best news I've heard all day." Garcia wasn't being sarcastic; the relief in her voice was palpable.

Sura clicked through the series of images again, making sure her eyes hadn't fooled her the first time. No, it was all still there, still immaculately organized and still very solid. Granted, this kind of evidence probably wouldn't be permissible in court—Roza knew Garcia's source couldn't be legal, and she wouldn't give the hacker away (because that's what this had to be, the ability to access the network—hacking, pure and simple). But then again, this wouldn't go to court. And if it did, well, by then they could have legal access to the data usage reports.

"How far back does this go?" Sura asked, scrolling through the reports. She was already back in the section of reports dated 2014.

"Three years. I sent everything I could get my hands on."

Sura frowned slightly as she looked at one monthly report in particular, "And what do you think of this spike in usage—the one about six months ago?"

"It doesn't make sense," came the simple reply. "At least not at first glance. But if you consider the fact that someone might have done a test run on the remote access program—"

"Then it makes perfect sense," Sura finished for her. "That was my thought, too. It would make sense to make sure it actually worked before the day. Install it, maybe send a few test emails—which could just as easily be deleted, so there's no proof."

"Exactly." It was obvious that Penelope Garcia was grinning at this point. Of course, Sura knew that this was the line of thought that Garcia had intended to set her on, but honestly, it was the trail she would've followed, with or without prompting.

"Are there any other spikes, over the past three years?" Sura was curious.

"Nope."

"Hm."

The line beeped with another incoming call.

"Miss Garcia, I have another call waiting—but I'll be in touch."

"I certainly hope so."

"And—thank you."

"Anything for Spencer Reid." Her reply was still cheery, but Sura saw the bite behind it ( _I didn't do this for you, I did this for Reid_ ). And for that almost-show of strength, Sura admired her.

She quickly switched lines, "This is Roza speaking."

"Miss Roza," the accent was British, and vaguely familiar—she was pretty sure this was the same person she'd spoken to at Interpol earlier that morning.

"Mrs. Roza," she corrected, unthinkingly.

"This is Mr. Knox." There was a note of haughty mocking in his tone, and she didn't blame him for it. "We've been looking at the CCTV footage from Heathrow, and we finally got your girl on camera."

"And it is Maura Morrow, not her sister?" Sura could've sworn that her heart stopped, but she could hear the pounding of her pulse as clearly as a drum.

"We're 92% certain—which in this area is basically 102% certain." He wasn't lying—facial recognition protocol wasn't set at a cut and dried 100% match. Faces changed angle and outside factors such as the quality of video, the amount of sunlight or shadow, or even simply the facial expression currently being made by the target, could keep the software from committing to a full match. He continued, "I'm sending the confirmation screen caps over via email as we speak."

"Thank you," Sura didn't have anything else to say.

"You're welcome. As always, we delight at the chance to help our dear friends across the pond." Again, the sarcastic tone was just at the edge of his words, but at this point, Sura Roza didn't give a damn. He'd given her what she needed and that was all that mattered.

Her email dinged with a new notification—Knox's email had come through. She clicked on the first attachment. Maura Morrow's Icelandic-featured face stared back at her, slightly blurry due to the video feed quality, but still easily recognizable.

Roza gave a small smirk of victory.

 _We've got you now, bitch._

* * *

" _Vengeance is one of life's great motivators."_ _  
_ _~K.S. Brooks._


	32. Kingdoms Lost

**Kingdoms Lost**

" _The Devil is in the details, but so is salvation."_ _  
~_ _Hyman G. Rickover_ _._

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Jack Dawson's cellphone began to ring as he stepped through the double glass doors of the Academy's main entrance. He gave a heavy sigh at how perfectly timed it was—he'd left a still-shaken Jess at the hospital with Jude, and as soon as he'd officially re-entered the world of the case, that world had immediately started clamoring for his attention.

It was Sura. He answered, "Roza, I'm walking in right now."

"Oh, cool. So, I have good news and interesting news—both of which might actually be considered bad news, given the situation."

"What's the news?" He navigated through the hallways so easily now, it was as if he'd been here for years instead of a mere four days.

"First, the kinda-good news: Interpol got the footage from the CCTVs in and around Heathrow. They ran it through their facial recognition program, and they've got a match. We can confirm that Maura Morrow definitely entered the United Kingdom this morning, under her sister's identity."

By this point, Dawson had reached the office-turned-temporary-headquarters, and the last few words of Sura's statement were in surround sound. She smiled when she saw him, and they hung up simultaneously.

"Hiya, boss," she was too cheerful, and he knew this was her attempt at bravery.

"Jude's gonna be OK," he knew that she needed to know as soon as possible, and he didn't prolong her suffering. "I can give you the full run-down later. For now, let's hear the rest of the news."

"You're gonna wanna close the door behind you," her hands made a fluttery motion towards the door.

He acquiesced, his body humming with the first signals of something _not good_ afoot.

"You're going to have to revise your theory on Dr. Reid." She informed him.

"What do you mean?"

She waved him over to her, to the other side of her desk, where he could view her computer screen (not that it mattered, the visuals and graphs on her screen meant absolutely nothing to him).

"So I've been looking at Spencer Reid's cellphone data usage for the last three years—"

"Wait, how did you—"

"That's really not the point right now, my dear." Sura waved away his question. "The point is that we can finally answer questions about Dr. Reid's phone, and whether or not someone could have gained remote access."

Dawson pushed down the urge to further pursue the details of exactly how Sura had come across this information, when he was certain that their warrant hadn't been granted yet. Instead, he focused on trying to make the graphs and numbers make sense. "OK, so is there an uptick in usage? Any kind of indication that this program was installed or used?"

"Look at this man, knowing all the right questions to ask." She reached up to give him a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

"And do you have the answers to those questions?"

"I do, my dear, and I resent the implication that you'd even think that I wouldn't." Sura didn't even sound remotely upset. "There's one spike, six months ago. A mere blip. Then another—about three days ago."

"OK, so there's credence in the theory that someone installed a remote access program on his phone." Dawson gave a small nod.

"Yes, but that's not the point of this entire exercise." She tapped a few more keys, and the entire slew of images disappeared. She turned to fully face her team leader. "I want Penelope Garcia here, with me. I want her working on this case in an official capacity."

Garcia. The BAU's technical analyst. Dawson suddenly had a premonition, "She's the one who sent you these reports. How'd she get them?"

Sura gave a slight shrug at this, as if it wasn't entirely important. She crossed her arms over her freckled chest, "She's the best of the best, Dawson. I want her here—I _need_ her."

When it came to describing the character and personality of Sura Roza, _humble_ wasn't a word that came to mind. Dawson knew that when the woman said she needed help, she truly needed it. And if she were handing out compliments like _the best of the best_ , well—she meant that, too.

"I'll see what I can do," he promised.

"No, just _do_ it," Roza countered. "I need another set of eyes and hands in here anyways, and I honestly don't trust Viega and Federer with the kinds of tasks that need to be done. They're good for grunt work, but Garcia could run laps around them in her sleep. I need someone like that. Besides, we owe her—it would've taken days if not weeks to get all this information from the cellphone company, and she just handed it to us on a silver platter."

Dawson couldn't argue with that—and he certainly didn't want to argue with Roza, regardless of the topic. His team was already unraveling, and he couldn't afford to have his analyst pissed at him. There was enough stress in his life without that.

"Fine," he gave a heavy sigh. "Call Garcia. I'll let O'Donnell and Cruz know about our latest developments."

Sura was smiling now, self-satisfied.

Dawson stopped just before he opened the door again, "By the way, you know your theory about Jonas and Jude? Way off the mark. Way, way off the mark."

He left her with a quizzical expression. He'd explain later—but for now, there were more important things to do.

* * *

Scott O'Donnell rubbed his forehead in a mixture of frustration and frenzy. The events of the morning had somehow set a pace that was both too fast and too slow, and he warred between wanting things to slow down and speed up.

Earlier in the morning, the local security personnel at Washington Dulles International Airport had found Linnea Charles' car in the long-term parking garage. A team of bomb specialists had been called in to make sure that this car wasn't rigged to blow as well, and once the all-clear was given, the trunk had been opened—Linnea wasn't there, a not-entirely-unexpected development that caused both relief and concern. Nothing could be simple, not even the reaction to each new piece of evidence.

Quick calculations based on what time Linnea was first kidnapped and what time Maura Morrow boarded her flight for London revealed that Linnea could be anywhere within a six hour radius of the District—and that was only if Morrow obeyed the speed limit. Not exactly heartening.

The car was currently being loaded on to a trailer, so that it could be hauled back to the Quantico evidence lab for further analysis. Although the only likely outcome would be confirming that Maura Morrow had been in the car—something they already knew.

See? All these new bits of evidence, all pointing back to things they already knew. Push, pull, too much, not enough.

It wasn't even noon, and he was already completely exhausted. Granted, he'd been awake since the early hours of the morning, taking part in the raid on Maura Morrow's house—and everything that had happened there had only further drained what little energy he had to begin with. The shock of adrenaline to his system after the explosion and Agent Eden's resulting injury had been enough to knock anyone on their back, but he didn't have time to recuperate. He'd headed up the beginning of evidence collection on site and had then returned to Quantico, where he'd overseen the situation with Linnea's car from the Flying Js' makeshift incident command center at the Academy. Sura Roza had been uncharacteristically kind to him and had even gone so far as to make him a cup of coffee. He could only imagine how pathetic he must have looked, to elicit such a response from that woman.

He was on his way back for another cup of coffee (his fourth of the morning, maybe his fifth?), when he saw Jack Dawson in the hallway.

"What's the status of the car?" Dawson asked, without preamble.

"En route," O'Donnell returned. "How's Agent Eden?"

"Stable."

O'Donnell gave a nod of approval. "Cruz spoke to Dr. Reid, who claimed to have no connection, personal or professional, to Maura Morrow."

"Interpol just confirmed—Morrow was the one using her sister's passport on the flight to London," Dawson added. "Sura's keeping an eye on things, but as of right now, her credit cards are still inactive, and neither her name nor her sister's had appeared on any flight manifests leaving the country."

"Not that she needs to fly at this point," O'Donnell pointed out. Dawson hummed in agreement—the U.K. was the gateway to Continental Europe. Morrow only had to take the Eurostar from London to Paris and then from there, she could go anywhere.

O'Donnell's phone buzzed. It was a text from Macaraeg, informing him that they'd finished preliminary evidence collection at Morrow's house and were headed back to Quantico. Unsurprisingly, there had been no evidence of Linnea Charles at the house.

He relayed that information to Dawson, who seemed equally nonplussed.

Another set of footsteps echoed through the nearly empty halls, and Mateo Cruz soon appeared, looking as haggard as the others. He didn't bother to ask how their morning was going—their dour expressions were answer enough.

"We're bringing in Penelope Garcia," Dawson announced. Cruz merely nodded, as if he'd been expecting such a thing. That was what fatigue did to you—took away your ability to be surprised by any form of news. Dawson continued, "Roza needs help, and she claims Garcia's the best."

"She is," O'Donnell returned easily. He didn't know the technical analyst personally, but her work had always been exemplary and even people who didn't know her were aware of her skills.

Dawson nodded, as if accepting O'Donnell's assertion. Then he turned to more important matters. "We need to find Linnea Charles. I want you two to turn the conference room into an incident center dedicated solely to Charles' kidnapping. Shostakovich will help you, as soon as he returns."

The other two men made small noises of agreement. Cruz spoke up, "Do you want to assign a secondary team to Charles' case?"

"I'm working on that now," Dawson informed them, turning curtly on his heel and heading back down the hallway.

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

By the time Emily Prentiss had rejoined the BAU, everyone was preparing for lunch. She was warmly welcomed by the others, and she gave a slightly apologetic smile in response, as if she'd been caught skipping class. She knew that no one blamed her for spending a little time with JJ, but still, she felt a pang of guilt for not actively being a part of the morning's efforts to solve the case.

"How's JJ?" Blake asked, rising from her seat at the dining table.

"She's, um…she's good," Emily shifted a shopping bag from one hand to the other as she slipped into Penelope's bedroom. She reappeared a few seconds later, sans bag. "Although I should warn everyone: she's now aware of the situation with Reid, and she's not exactly pleased with the fact that we've kept it from her for so long."

"It was in her best interest," Hotch returned easily, voicing the thought that had simultaneously flashed across everyone's mind.

Morgan held up a hand, "And we were just following Will's lead."

"Dude, way to throw poor Will under the bus," Callahan chided playfully.

"Look, you haven't had the misfortune of being on Jennifer Jareau's bad side yet," Morgan defended himself. "But lemme tell you, it isn't something you enjoy. I'm just trying to survive."

This earned him a few grins—because the older members of the group definitely understood where he was coming from.

"But there is a ray of sunshine," Emily held out her hands, as if offering a gift. "Our guys tagged Morrow on the CCTVs at Heathrow. So we officially know where she is."

"For now," Rossi added.

Emily ignored the comment and glanced around the room, "What about you guys? Any news?"

"Yep, and all of it good," Penelope informed her. "We have Reid's phone records, which can lead further credence to the theory that he was hacked, and I just got a call a few minutes ago from the lead technical analyst on this case—she wants me to come to Quantico, to join the hunt for Morrow in an official capacity."

"Good," Emily's eyes went wide. Then she glanced back at Hotch, "That is good, right?"

Hotch nodded.

"I'm getting ready to head out now," Penelope continued.

"But not before you have some lunch," Rossi informed her, looking for all the world like the stern Italian mama that was most certainly his inner spirit-animal. Emily and Penelope exchanged twisted grins, as if silently agreeing: _isn't he the cutest thing when he's in mother-hen mode?_

"You want me to drive you?" Emily asked.

"Na-uh, Miss Ma'am," Derek Morgan held out his hand, as if physically stopping her. "I've already called dibs on driving Miss Daisy."

"But only if you talk like Morgan Freeman," Garcia stipulated.

He gave her a smooth smile in return. "Anything for you, babydoll."

Alex Blake's face quirked into an expression of bemused concern, "Is it weird that I've actually missed listening to you two talk like that?"

"No," came Morgan's reply.

"Yes," came the rebuttal from Hotch and Rossi.

Everyone else laughed. Again, Kate Callahan was struck by the feeling of family that permeated the apartment, even in the midst of such stress and darkness.

However, Aaron Hotchner quickly returned to more serious subjects, filling Emily in on the rest of the morning's developments, "The note forged in Reid's handwriting is already with a second analyst, so hopefully we'll be able to take away another piece of evidence against Reid."

"You think they'll finally release him?" Emily felt a ripple of optimism.

"I suppose that depends on what this new analyst says."

* * *

 _ **Evidence Lab, FBI Field Office. New York City, New York.**_

The rest of the lab was certainly aware that something was up. An entire section of the lab had been cordoned off by the lab director Shelley Gosslee, more affectionately known as Hooch, thanks to her spiky grey hair, which gave her an uncanny resemblance to the Hogwarts instructor of the same name. No one else was allowed to walk past the two large stainless steel tables, which had been pulled together to form a makeshift barrier.

Hooch was wearing a set of magnifying glasses over her regular glasses, which only made her look more like the iconic character from the Harry Potter films—however she was far too engrossed in her work to be concerned with the slight twitterings of her younger colleagues, one of whom had taken a photo of her to later post on Tumblr, citing it was "too good to pass up".

Addie Mac had contacted her earlier that morning, claiming that she needed to cash in a favor. Now in general, Shelley Gosslee was a helpful person, but when it came to Adelaide, she was even more so. They'd come up together through the years, and two decades ago, they would have even been classified as best friends. As such, Shelley had been one of the few people who really knew why Mac had transferred to Albany, and she had nothing but mad respect for the woman and her decision. Over the years, they'd fallen out of touch, but once Mac had returned to the New York Field Office, their friendship had resumed. Gosslee prided herself on running an efficient and unbiased evidence lab, but she wouldn't deny that perhaps she gave Mac's cases a little more personal attention.

Case in point: here she was, personally analyzing this piece of evidence. Granted, Mac had specifically asked her to look at it herself, instead of foisting it onto one of her assistants. Mac hadn't come out and said what to look for, but she didn't have to. The first analyst had confirmed this handwriting sample wasn't a forgery, and yet the FBI was asking for a second opinion. Which meant they had expected it to be a fake.

If it was a fake, it was a damned good one. At first glance, it was a match. At second and third glance, it still matched.

But Hooch wasn't the kind of woman who stopped at third glance—or even fourth glance, for that matter. She blew the handwriting up to almost fifty times its original size, staring at it with her magnifying glasses like it was the world's most fascinating puzzle. Two samples were side by side: a list of addresses, and a page from handwritten after-action report (who still wrote these things by hand nowadays?). Her right hand rested on a weighty tome, _Between the Lines: The Dissection of Handwriting, from Theory to Practice_ by Dr. Maura Morrow. The book was over a decade old by now, but some techniques were truly timeless. Hooch's personal office at the other end of the lab held at least another half-dozen books on the subject, but this particular one was her guiding light. Morrow's research touched on minutiae that other writers on the subject had never considered, or at least hadn't bothered to write down. The woman had a reputation for being one of the most foremost authorities on handwriting, and this book alone proved that she'd rightly earned the distinction.

Hooch blinked. She'd been staring for so long that her vision had clouded and unfocused. Usually, when copying another person's writing, the writer would leave behind tell-tale marks, little hitches in the lettering where they'd had to stop and retrain their hand to form a certain letter a certain way. This held none of that. If the list of addresses was a forgery, the forger had practiced this handwriting for a long time—weeks, perhaps even months. They'd made sure the writing flowed easily, as effortlessly as their own. With any forgery, that would require a level of skill and concentration to be commended, but even more so with this particular slanted writing.

The e's were positively beastly, with pointed edges and odd sharp endings. And the s's lost their curviness, coming to harsher angles as well. In fact, every s held that same odd pitch….and the numbers all kept close to each other, in tight-yet-neat little lines. There wasn't much room for the poor things to breathe.

Suddenly, she began to laugh. The rest of the lab exchanged glances ranging from amused to mildly concerned. No one could tell if Hooch had experienced a breakthrough or simply a breakdown.

* * *

 _ **Evidence Lab, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Jeff Masterson shifted slightly in his uncomfortable metal chair, silently consoling himself with the thought that after today, the electrical crew would be finished with the repairs at the blast site and soon they would be back to a regular power source. Obviously that wouldn't do anything for the soreness in his back and legs due to the chairs, but at least he wouldn't be subjected to the incessant whirring and whining of the generators. In moments like these, one had to look for silver linings wherever they could be found, no matter how slight they seemed.

And today was a day in dire need of silver linings.

He and Roe were currently processing the samples that they'd taken from the explosion at Maura Morrow's house. There had been some hope that they could link it to the bomb that had detonated at Quantico, but that was quickly dashed. The person responsible for this boom didn't have the same skill level as the Quantico bomber—that had been obvious from the start, given how ineffective it had been. But each test only further confirmed the differences—different substances, different chemical signatures, different everything.

For a brief moment, he wondered if he should take a break and check on Mac. His supervisor had locked herself away again with the journals—it only took two to analyze the new evidence, and besides, it wasn't Mac's area of expertise. Sure, she was the head of their department, but she hadn't spent years studying bombs and their making, like Jeff and Roe had.

However, before he could even act on the thought, Macaraeg whirled into the main lab, her amber eyes wide with a mixture of fear and adrenaline.

Jeff could feel Rowena's entire body stiffen next to him—obviously, she'd read the urgency in their boss' body language as well.

"What's wrong?" Roe spoke before Jeff could.

Mac was still clutching a notebook in her hand. Her expression held a faint air of horror, and Jeff was struck with the feeling that they'd somehow missed something—something big.

His supervisor held up the journal, as if it were a banner, calling troops to war. "According to Fuller, this bomb had a detonator."

* * *

 _ **Three Days Earlier. Benjamin Fuller's House. Rural Virginia.**_

Benjamin Fuller shook his head, his expression still glazed with shock and dismay as he quietly repeated, "All those people. All those innocent people."

Maura pushed down a wave of frustration. Initially, she'd shared Benjamin's chagrin, but he kept _harping_ on the thing, as if constantly repeating the fact that they'd made a mistake would somehow undo the error itself.

It was neither welcome, nor helpful.

"This was not the plan," he spoke again, and again, it was another phrase that he'd repeated often over the past hour. "This was not the plan at all."

"I am well aware of that," she bit back the ice in her throat, barely keeping her tone civil. Benjamin had always been fragile, particularly when it came to her disapproval, and she really didn't need anything else tipping him over into depression or whatever the hell else he might be careening towards.

"The kid," Benjamin's voice broke. He didn't have to clarify (after all, they'd fully dissected this a dozen times by now)—Maura knew he was referring to the young intern who'd been pushing the mail cart. The mail cart loaded down with their bomb. Their bomb, which was never meant to leave the mail room.

"Benjamin," Maura spoke in a low, quiet tone that was at-odds with the frustration coursing through her veins. "Benjamin, it's not your fault that the boy came into work hours ahead of schedule. We couldn't have planned for that. You're not responsible."

The younger man simply set his mouth into a thin, hard line, giving a single shake of his head.

Maura knew that she didn't have any other choice. Thankfully, she'd planned for this eventuality. Benjamin's sweet nature and overdeveloped sense of justice had been his greatest asset, whenever she'd been able to manipulate it into helping her plan the attack. But now it was his greatest weakness—and Maura had known it would be this way, for quite some time.

She moved silently into the kitchen, taking down two tumblers from the cabinet and pouring a splash of whiskey into each. She glanced over her shoulder, back into the living room, where Benjamin sat. He was too far in his own head to notice what was happening around him. Maura gingerly slipped the small vial from her pocket and poured the liquid into one of the tumblers.

It would have been easier to simply use a powder, but it wouldn't dissolve as well, and Benjamin might notice. Maura had decided that she didn't want him to ever truly know what was happening to him. She'd told herself that it would break his precious little heart, if he realized what she'd done—but a smaller, quieter voice in her head acknowledged that it was more about not ruining that shining adoration he held for her. If he figured it out, he'd look to her with broken eyes and she'd watch more than just a physical death. For all his faults and failings, Benjamin Fuller deserved to die with some measure of hope still left. It would be her final kindness to him, her final thank-you for all his work, for his dedication and his devotion.

With a quick swirl, the drink was mixed. She turned back to him with a sympathetic smile, offering the glass.

He took it, looking down at the drink with a brooding expression.

"Drink," she quietly commanded. "It'll help."

He didn't obey. Instead, he merely set the glass aside. "I'm not ready to be helped."

She knew what he really meant— _I don't deserve to be helped_. He was punishing himself for the mistake, for the one factor that he couldn't control in this entire scenario.

Everything had been paced and planned, like a ballet. The package was left in the mailroom. The email had been sent to the reporter, alerting her of the bomb. There would be a second email sent out, revealing the bomb's location. Linnea Charles would have simply blown the whistle. Then the Quantico Bomb Squad would have gone into the mail room—and the bomb would have been detonated. Justice would have been served.

Except that hadn't happened. The first email had been sent, and then the bomb had gone off. All because some overzealous kid showed up to work early and couldn't fucking leave well enough alone.

After another fifteen minutes of listening to Benjamin whining and wallowing in self-pity, Maura tried to get him to drink again. And again, she was met with failure.

She glanced at the clock. It wasn't supposed to take this long. She should have been gone by now. There was still so much left to do—the Quantico bombing might have been Benjamin's final act, but it was only her opening salvo. Granted, any chance for real revenge was gone the moment that the bomb went off, at the wrong time and even in the wrong place, but the rest was simply part of the plan—the plan that she and John Curtis had begun, what now seemed like a lifetime ago. John was long gone, but part of her felt that she still owed him this much. After all, she never would have gotten a chance for vengeance, if he hadn't shown up.

A chance. A chance lost, but at least not wasted. She'd tried, and she'd failed, but eventually, she'd find a way to succeed. For now, she needed to wrap up loose ends, pay off old debts, then skulk off to lick her wounds and create a new plan of attack.

Time was unraveling, just like the loose end currently seated in front of her. In the beginning, she wouldn't have even considered taking out Benjamin Fuller. He was solid, dependable, completely devoted to her. Over time, she'd realized that was exactly what Curtis would do—what he _had_ done, in the last instance that he'd used a proxy. She saw the practicality of it, but it was the compassion of the act that swayed her.

Because, yes, this was compassion. The more she'd gotten to know Benjamin, the more she realized that he was, in many ways, still a young and sensitive boy, forever turning inward into his own world of introspection and reflection. At some point, he'd start to doubt himself, his actions, their consequences—and at some point, he'd be overcome with guilt, regardless of how he'd felt at the beginning of their venture, regardless of how right he knew his actions were, regardless of the logical argument his brain would present to his tell-tale heart. His logos would lose to his pathos. He'd never lash out at her, but he'd destroy himself.

This was the reasoning behind Maura's current plan. She was saving him from himself, even if both scenarios ended in his death.

Granted, her decision was helped along by the discovery she'd made just last week. As the day of reckoning had approached, she'd noticed that Benjamin had become more skittish. He'd shown the first signs of hesitancy, the first doubts, the first indications of instability. So she'd slipped into his house while he was at work (after all, he'd shown her where the spare key was hidden, "in case anything happened"), and had taken a good look around. His desk was locked, and she'd spent considerable time finding the hidden key, but in hindsight, she was glad that she'd taken the time.

Because inside the desk were the journals. Pages upon pages of their plan, from the minutest detail to recountings of lunches they'd shared, over which the plan wasn't even discussed. Her stomach had tightened as she'd read the lines—she'd always known that Benjamin had a soft spot for her, but she'd never realized just how deep his obsession ran.

Obsession. The word was tawdry, the type of thing you find in dime store romances smudged with too many fingerprints, but it was the only word that fit. Why was he keeping record? And for whom—himself, or someone else? Was this a sentimental memento, or his get-out-of-jail-free card? If he knew he would get caught, would he burn these, or give them to the FBI on a silver platter?

The possible outcomes were too much of a gamble to take. Any lingering doubts Maura might have had evaporated completely. She'd returned everything to its rightful place and never mentioned to Benjamin that she knew of his betrayal.

When it came to ending Benjamin's inevitable suffering, Maura had done a bit of research. Poison was clean and relatively quick. She just had to find a compound that was easy to create and that would dissolve into the bloodstream, leaving no traces. But she also knew that poison was the preferred method of many female murderers, for the exact same reasons—and she had to leave no doubt that Benjamin Fuller had died by his own hand. The story had to begin and end with him, leaving investigators with no reason to suspect another.

Benjamin provided the solution himself—during her tour of his home, she'd found the personal handgun that he kept in his bedroom closet. A gun owned by him, with his fingerprints already on it. All she had to do was make it look as if he'd shot himself—an M.O. favored more often by male suicide victims than female.

The idea of poison had been switched for a tranquilizer. Perhaps a little bit harder to obtain, but less chemistry involved, and while it wouldn't kill him, it would knock him out enough to keep him from realizing what was happening—and more importantly, from fighting back. Despite the obstacles, she'd been able to arrange everything she needed within a very short timeframe, further proving that today's failing certainly couldn't be her fault— _she_ was capable of executing a plan, capable of getting the job done, no mess, no mishap.

Except Benjamin wasn't following the plan. He should've finished the drink by now, his limbs heavy and drowsy, eyelids drooping as he tumbled into peaceful slumber. But he hadn't taken so much as a single sip.

Maura took a drink from her own glass, watching him pointedly, silently prompting him to do the same.

He missed the message, apparently. Instead, he stared at the far wall, eyes glazed over with pain and remorse.

"So many innocent people," he whispered again. She could almost hear his heart breaking.

"Yes." For someone who spent so much time studying the way people communicated, she'd never really learned how to infuse the correct emotional tone in her voice. She glanced at the clock again, slightly distracted by the time. She thought about the letter that she'd planned to place on the credenza—it wasn't really a letter, but it was the closest thing to a suicide note that she could find among his rants and writings. And there had been something poetic about it, something that she didn't want the investigators to miss, when they found his body. She wanted them to _know_ that all of this had been caused by their hubris, their arrogance, their inability to see past their own ego. She thought about the gun, still in its case on the shelf in his bedroom closet, and the latex gloves waiting in her purse. She thought about how many hours it had been since the explosion, how many agents were assigned to the case, and how quickly they could link everything together, how soon they'd storm Benjamin's little cabin, how much time she had to take care of everything.

Her chest tightened at these thoughts, an involuntary panic reflex. For the first time, she felt as if things were truly spiraling out of control. All the things before were unfortunate events, but simply a possible consequence of their work.

"We…we wanted to…we didn't want this," Benjamin spoke again.

"No, we didn't." Again, she tried to sound reassuring and failed. Instead, she merely sounded factual.

"But that doesn't matter, does it? Because we've done it, we've done _this_ , the thing we didn't want to do. We're no better than the traitors we tried to punish—we are the traitors. _I_ am the traitor." The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and Maura saw the true moment of Benjamin Fuller's break. It had been easy to justify his actions, so long as he was able to tell himself that the person he was punishing was worthy of punishment—he was taking out a traitor, he was helping the Bureau, he was ridding them of a bad apple, a serpent in their garden who had marred their reputation and ruined their legacy. But his mission had failed, and innocent lives had paid the price—and with it came the cost of his sanctimony, his own rationalization for all his actions and motivations. He hadn't been an avenger, he'd been the very type of villain that he'd tried to punish.

Maura realized that she should have taken matters into her own hands several minutes ago. Benjamin's downward spiral had officially begun. She went to her purse, taking out her latex gloves with one last glance over her shoulder (a habit more than a gesture of actual concern—Benjamin wasn't aware of her, not in the slightest).

"Drink," she commanded again. "You need it."

Then she turned and quietly made her way down the hall, not bothering to see if he followed orders. Either he did or he didn't—either way, it wouldn't make much difference now.

Maura realized her hands were shaking as she put on her gloves. She took the slim gun case from its shelf. The weapon felt heavy, but the weight in her palm was somehow reassuring. She didn't know much about firearms, but she knew enough to check the magazine clip. It took her a few seconds to figure out how the safety worked, but it felt longer than that—she had an irrational fear that Benjamin would suddenly snap out of his self-loathing stupor and come after her. If he found her here, with the gun and the gloves, everything would be ruined.

She loaded a round into the chamber before switching the safety back on and moving to the room across the hall—Benjamin's study, where she'd found those incriminating journals. Not for the first time, she inwardly cursed this man. In the months that she'd known him, she'd found him to be thoughtful, meticulous to a fault, and slightly paranoid (which often worked to her advantage, surprisingly). This journal-keeping was almost completely out of character for him—hadn't he realized how reckless he was being?

She found the page that she was looking for easily enough—last time she'd been here, she'd put everything back into place, just as she'd found it, but she'd remembered which notebook and even which page number the chosen faux suicide letter was on. She thanked her former self for the time saved by this precaution, delicately removing the page with a frown of concentration.

Each step back down the hall sent a corresponding pound of dread in her stomach. Briefly, her mind flitted to the thought that she didn't have to do this, but it seemed like merely a requisite hesitation instead an actual consideration. After all, shouldn't one have some kind of moral quandary before taking a life? Wasn't that supposed to happen?

The irony of the moment wasn't lost on her—and not too surprisingly, she wasn't shocked at her own lack of response. She'd only told herself that she should feel guilty or remorseful, because that was what she was supposed to feel, but she didn't _actually_ experience those emotions. She blamed the people responsible for this whole thing in the first place—after everything, she'd lost what little empathy she'd had to begin with, and she'd been through the kind of fire that leaves one hardened and impassive, regardless of their previous outlook. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't feel even the slightest bit of remorse for what she must do next—it was the fault of those who'd taken every other option away from her, the ones who'd driven her to this particular brand of madness through their cruelty and callousness all those years ago.

Benjamin hadn't moved. Not that she'd really expected him to. He'd probably sit there, rooted to that damn chair until the FBI barged through the door. He was utterly broken.

She was doing the right thing. She was putting this poor creature out of its misery.

As she gingerly lowered the piece of paper onto the credenza, she noticed that her hand no longer shook. Adrenaline had truly taken over, and now every movement was weighted and thoughtful and smooth, as if she were conducting an orchestra or performing a ballet or playing the piano.

There was a sudden rush of appreciation for the young man seated before her, still oblivious to his inevitable fate. Yes, he was reckless and had proven himself completely incapable of handling stress, but he was also still the sweet and thoughtful and ardent boy who'd shook her hand all those months ago. He'd been her constant and only companion since the loss of John Curtis, and she couldn't have gotten this far without him. Despite his failings, he'd been useful, and she owed him a debt of gratitude.

She couldn't let him die like this—well, not _quite_ like this. She couldn't let his last emotions on this earth be ones of regret and self-loathing. She'd wanted him to slip away with a feeling of accomplishment, of knowing he'd done well, that he'd done exactly as she'd asked and that she was grateful for his work, that he'd truly earned the adoration that he'd been so desperately seeking from her.

She slipped the gun into her back pocket as she took a deep breath. As repulsed as she felt at the idea of physical contact (just as she'd always had, ever since she was a child), she would find a way to overcome, to touch him, perhaps even hold him, to give him some measure of the fantasy he'd always held for her. She'd learned that a smile or an accidental brush of her hand was enough to send him over the moon—she'd kneel before him and place her hands over his hands, she'd caress his face and tell him that it was all going to be alright. He'd like that. And more importantly, he would believe her. He would be calm and serene and she'd let him go into the next realm without any of this horrid guilt. It would be her gift to him, her final token of esteem.

But he opened his mouth and ruined it.

"We should turn ourselves in."

"What?" Maura's entire body went still—her muscles, her heart, her blood, everything. But her veins hummed back to life quickly, and all thoughts of sweetness were gone. They pounded with the drums of war.

"We can't be like them, Maura." It had been a while since he'd used her first name. For some reason, she took it as a sign that she'd fallen in his esteem. He never even turned back to look at her, and suddenly, it wasn't because of his shock—it was because of his revulsion. He couldn't stand to look at her, she could see it plain as day now! More anger and betrayal barreled through her blood like gasoline onto an open flame. This _boy_ , who had no clue how cruel the world really was, or how it really worked, was going to lecture _her_?

Benjamin continued with a heavy sigh, his voice filled with surety, "We have to take responsibility. If we don't, we'll be no better than—"

He never finished the sentence, because in a flash of fury, Maura's right hand slipped the gun from her back pocket as her left zipped forward, burrowing into Benjamin's dark hair and wrenching his head back with surprising ferocity.

It all happened so quickly, but there was still a moment for her to register the shock in his eyes, just before she pulled the trigger. And in that flash, she saw what she'd so feared—the adoration and trust so steadfastly present in his eyes were completely gone.

* * *

" _The eyes are not here  
There are no eyes here  
In this valley of dying stars  
In this hollow valley  
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms."_

 _~T.S. Eliot._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: I know, it's been a while. Like MONTHS. Like to the point where there needs to be some kind of explanation. Please understand that is the only reason I'm sharing this with you—I'm not fishing for pity or hoping for comfort, and I balk at the idea of this being seen as some kind of cry for attention. So please see it for what it is: an explanation of my absence, plain and simple.**_

 _ **Three months ago, my second mum passed away, completely unexpectedly, followed by the death of my niece four days later, which was, sadly, completely expected. Aside from the grief, I had to make travel arrangements and plan a funeral from 1800miles away—not an easy task, I'm sure you can imagine. Grief does not a productive writer make, in my case. I began writing again, but my job requires me to spend the entire month of July in San Diego, after which I take a week's vacation in Louisiana. Again, traveling and hectic schedules do not a productive writer make.**_

 _ **But I am back now, and ready to wrap this story up. Thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited this story, to those who have left reviews, and especially to Gerardfan, who reached out to make sure I was alright after such a long silence.**_

 _ **This story is now dedicated to Jane, my second mum, whose one-of-a-kind Devonshire accent, amazing compassion, ballsy bravado, persevering strength, and unendingly tender heart was a large source of inspiration for the characters of both Judith Eden and Brighid Adair, in varying respects. I was once your muse, and now you are mine—although there isn't a wordsmith in the world who could do justice to the sheer brilliance that was and still is you, my dearest. ***_


	33. Icarus Ascending

_**Icarus Ascending**_

" _And when you lied before,_ _  
_ _You broke our tie before_ _  
_ _And then I tapped into a feeling that I could not ignore…_ _  
_ _Fury, oh fury don't you misguide me_ _  
_ _I need my wits to set me free."_

 _~Nico Vega, Fury oh Fury._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: Two things.**_

 _ **1) Ye gods, it has been a reeeeally long time since I've updated this story. Apologies for that. Let's just say that life really got overwhelming for a while, and it's starting to ebb back into something more manageable. Thank you to everyone who still followed/favorited/reviewed/sent messages/checked to make sure I was still alive. I know we're a community of relative strangers, but your concern really helped, more than you can know. I don't know if anyone is still reading/following this story, but if you are, another huge thank you for hanging in there, champ.  
2) I don't think I've said this yet, but mental casting for Maura Morrow is the one and only Gillian Anderson.***_

* * *

 _ **February 2015. Benjamin Fuller's House. Rural Virginia.**_

Oddly enough, Maura's first impulse was to apologize. However, she quickly realized that at this point, words of any kind would be useless.

About as useless as her former plan. She'd shot Benjamin almost directly through the front of his forehead—how many people committed suicide this way? Usually men shot from the chin upwards, and women from the temple across—would the CSIs notice the oddness of the angle?

That question answered itself. Of course they would. If she, an untrained civilian, could notice how wonky things were, then a well-versed eye could certainly do it, and in half the time, probably.

Her previous feeling of controlled calm was gone. She could hear her own breathing, heavy and ragged, could feel the pull of her chest as her lungs strove to take on more oxygen, and yet, she didn't feel as if she were breathing at all. She was aware of the ringing in her ears, and wondered if the shot was loud enough to be overheard—Benjamin lived miles away from another human being, but the sound had been loud enough to alert the whole world. They were right on the river, what if a fisherman had been passing by?

Panic warred with nausea. She hadn't been prepared for the smell—the thick, tangy copper of blood, the heavier, roiling smell underneath that she assumed was attributed to the grey matter currently displayed across the back of the chair. Her head swam for a moment and she physically rocked back, unsteady on her feet. Unsure of what else to hold on to, she tightened her grip on the gun.

 _You can't do this, Maura. You can't fall apart now. It's all too far gone—you can't give up now, not when you're so close!_

With a long, shaking breath, Maura nodded in agreement with her inner voice. After all, the hardest part was over. To fail now would be akin to tripping just before the finish line. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a few more beats to steady her breathing, and then returned her mind to her tasks.

First, there was the primary evidence. She pressed the gun into Benjamin's hand, making sure to leave fresh prints and to hit the points necessary to pass a preliminary GSR test. Then she let his hand drop—the gun went with it, setting the stage for the initial story that would be told when the FBI finally came crashing through the door. She removed her left glove, balling it up into her right palm and then removing her right glove so that it rolled inside-out, effectively bundling both gloves and keeping any excess blood from transferring. She put them in her purse.

She took the two tumbler glasses of whiskey, washing and drying them thoroughly, double-checking to make sure no prints were left behind before returning them to the cabinet. Then she wiped down every surface she'd touched in the kitchen (she'd kept a running mental list, the entire time she'd been moving about, making the drinks). She went back to her purse and pulled out a second pair of latex gloves and some cleaning rags, her footsteps pounding double-time down the hallway as she returned to Benjamin's study.

She took a beat to stand in the doorway, her brain whirring and clicking as she scrambled to make up for her previous mistakes. She needed time to think, and she didn't particularly have that luxury.

There was a small chance that whoever was on the bombing case would actually rule Benjamin's death a suicide. There was a greater chance that she'd fucked that up entirely.

Which meant there needed to be another culprit.

She moved to the desk, where a journal sat, still open to the place where she'd removed Benjamin's faux-suicide note. Her prints had to be everywhere, from the time she'd spent reading through the journals last week. She began at the top of the desk, scrubbing along the sides, taking out all the journals to wipe the inside of the drawer. Then she turned her attention to the journals. They certainly had to go—far too much incriminating evidence. She absentmindedly glanced at an open page before her, scanning a line Benjamin's meticulous script.

 _Agent Reid believes that attacking at Quantico is the most effective option…_

The lightbulb burst in her brain. _Of course!_ _Reid!_ Why, hadn't they already gotten him tangled enough in this web to raise a few eyebrows?

After John Curtis had first asked her to refer to him as Agent Reid in front of Benjamin Fuller, Maura had done her own research—she knew that Curtis had to be targeting Dr. Spencer Reid, a member of the BAU and supposedly the smartest agent in the Bureau. She wasn't surprised, really. John could be absolutely catty about anyone who challenged his impressive intellect, and when one added in the fact that the younger man was enjoying a glittering career in the prestigious unit that had been John's brass ring for so long, well…that was just rubbing salt in a very open wound. In true Curtis fashion, John claimed he'd chosen Dr. Reid simply because he had the right motivation—given the events surrounding the death of Maeve Donovan.

Of course, John had died before any further details could be discussed, but Maura was nothing if not a meticulous researcher. She dredged up what she could on Maeve Donovan, and subsequently found her sister, Linnea. Incorporating her into the plot was easy, thanks to Benjamin's skills.

Benjamin. He'd never asked why Agent Reid stopped being a part of their plans—and if he ever noticed that one of their targets happened to bear the same last name, he certainly never said so aloud. In retrospect, he had to have noticed. He was a bright boy. Maura had told him shortly after Curtis' death that Agent Reid was no longer aiding them in their schemes, and Benjamin had been, unsurprisingly, relieved. Then several months later, Maura asked him to hack into Spencer Reid's phone. Had Benjamin thought it was _their_ Agent Reid? Had he thought he was getting revenge?

It was certainly too late to ask now.

The whole technical sleight-of-hand with Reid's email had merely been a way to show them how stupid they were, how helpless, how utterly powerless—not that Maura had cared much, but she felt it was something that John would do, and she owed him something. Of course, it would all be traced back to Benjamin, if the techs did their job right. Either way, it would never come back to her.

But now the card trick might have just become her own disappearing act. She looked at the journal with renewed interest. Originally, she'd intended to simply take all the journals with her and burn them as soon as possible. However, in light of recent events, she might be able to use them to her advantage.

No way in hell would Benjamin's death be ruled suicide. So she needed to make it look exactly as it really was—a set-up, a cover-up. The only thing she'd change was who needed to be covered.

She took a deep breath, weighing her decision. This was going to take longer than she'd planned—but ultimately, it would be worth it. A few extra minutes now for a lifetime of freedom later? An absolute bargain, really.

If she were covering up a murder, she'd need to take away all evidence that specifically pointed to her (and what a coincidence—that was exactly what she was doing, both as herself and as her new proxy, Dr. Reid). She couldn't make it too easy—Spencer Reid was a man of legendary intellect, he wouldn't be the type to make a paltry mistake—so she set out to remove every reference to herself and to Reid. She combed through every notebook, meticulously removing any stray bits of paper from the metal spirals, leaving no evidence that they'd ever been tampered with, at least at first glance. These techs might figure it out, but she was going to make them earn their keep. She wiped down the journal covers and gave cursory swipes on the pages—if she left any fingerprints behind, they'd be too smudged to identify, much less match to her own.

She went back into the kitchen to retrieve a trash bag, carefully taking all of the sheets and small bits of excess paper before returning the redacted journals to their drawer in the desk. She glanced around the office with one last satisfied air before heading back down the hallway, trash bag in tow. Then she gingerly removed her clothes, stuffing them in the bag as well. She donned her long winter coat, grateful that it covered enough to give the illusion that she was still fully dressed underneath, and gave the house one last walk-through to ensure herself that all was as it should be. In the kitchen, she took the last thing she'd ever need from Benjamin Fuller: a cigarette lighter.

She drove five miles down the deserted country road before pulling over. Teeth chattering from the cold, she trudged out to the Potomac River, which ran a few yards away from the path. The trash bag came with her—piece by piece, she held up her clothes and her latex gloves and lit them on fire with the cigarette lighter, letting them burn as much as possible before dropping them into the water. The key to Benjamin's desk fell out of her pants pocket and she cursed slightly at the realization that she hadn't returned it. Even though it was a three-minute drive, she wasn't going back there again. She tossed the key into the water as well. Rocks were added to the trash bag, which still held the papers from the journal. A few well-placed holes in the plastic would ensure that water could rush in and do its irrevocable work on the paper, and then with one last heave-ho, she chucked the bag into the river. Her shoes followed as well, and she stood, barefoot and barely clothed, smiling with self-satisfaction. There was still so much left to do, but she was filled with an overwhelming sense of serenity. She'd done the hardest part, the rest would fall into line as well.

She briefly wondered if John Curtis had ever felt this elatedly calm during his time as the Replicator. If so, she could understand why he'd continued his work. It was an absolutely addictive feeling.

She looked up at the stars, smiling in collusion with the Universe. They shared a secret now—they both understood what it meant to be invincible.

* * *

 _ **Three Days Later. Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.**_

It was a good thing that Adelaide Macaraeg didn't much care for how she looked when she was working, because she currently resembled something out of a contagion movie—she'd suited up in her white jumpsuit, complete with hood and safety glasses, and she'd added a face mask, due to all the dust swirling around the air. Once she reached the center of the blast site, she also donned a headlamp. She got the sneaking suspicion that if the situation weren't so serious, Jeff Masterson would be cracking jokes at her appearance. However, the barrel-chested man remained stoic, holding steady the ladder that the cleaning and electrical crews had lent them. Those crews were currently positioned at the other end of the hallway, keeping a respectful level of distance and silence. Mac and Jeff hadn't missed their looks of concern whenever they'd been informed that there was still a piece of vital evidence left somewhere in the rubble—they'd all probably wondered if it were a piece of vital evidence that could still blow up, no doubt.

In a way, they weren't far off the mark, Mac reasoned, though she wisely kept that line of commentary to herself. Instead, she merely gave a light sigh before ascending the ladder.

After the discovery in Fuller's journals that the bomb had included a timer, Mac had gone back over every bit of evidence with Jeff, leaving Rowena to continue assessing the chemical makeup of their latest boom. Unsurprisingly, yet worryingly, they hadn't found anything in their collection of evidence to suggest it had once been a timing device of any shape or form (unsurprisingly, because if it had been found, one of them would have recognized it as such right away, and worryingly, because that meant they'd somehow missed a crucial piece of evidence). They'd looked at the site schematics that they'd taken on the first day, and had concluded that the only logical place for the timer to be would be above—somehow lodged into the rafters, lost in the tangle of electrical wires and air ducts.

Which was why Mac was currently standing atop a twelve-foot ladder, engulfed in cold darkness from the waist up as her head brushed against wires and soggy bits of insulation. The darkness was dispelled by the clicking on of her headlamp, but the rest of the scenario was unfortunately unchangeable.

A smaller bundle of wires, lost somewhere within a larger tangle of wires. _Should be a walk in the park, right?_

She leaned forward slightly, craning her neck to get a better view, and the already-damaged ceiling tile caved further in, reminding her how unstable it all was. Below, Masterson made a noise that sounded like _whoa_ , but she couldn't tell if it was directed at her or the tile.

Things were gonna have to go slowly, and carefully. Normally, Mac didn't mind taking a little extra time, but she'd already wasted so much time _not_ knowing about the existence of this timer—she was already behind, and she couldn't afford to be. She needed to confirm that this timer was real, and she needed to have done it about twenty-four hours ago.

With a frustrated sigh, she shook her head and began to slowly turn in a circle, taking full beats to visually examine each section before slightly turning. She could feel the ladder wobble beneath her feet, but it suddenly became rock-steady and she knew that Masterson had tightened his grip, reinforcing the frame.

"Easy now," he warned gently.

A large section of insulation was hanging in front of her now, still wet and mildewy from the emergency sprinklers and the lack of proper ventilation. She brushed it gently with her hand, and a heavy glob fell onto the ceiling tile with a dull thud.

"Y'Okay?" Jeff was immediately on alert.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she reassured him. "The insides of this ceiling are just falling to pieces."

The thought niggled at the back of her brain. She turned slightly again, so that she was fully facing the section of damp and disintegrating insulation. The blast had knocked it loose, of course, but most of it hadn't started falling until after it had been soaked by the sprinklers and had sat for several hours without drying out. Which mean it was falling on top of things that had landed atop the ceiling tiles during the initial blast.

"Hey, watch out, things might come falling down," she warned. Jeff made a noise that implied he'd heard her. Mac leaned forward a little more, resting her right hand on a metal rafter beam as her left began to gingerly pick away the layer of soggy insulation. Despite the cool February air and the lack of heating, she soon felt a sheen of perspiration on her forehead—the full forensic suit and the stuffy air had teamed up to make her forget that it was the middle of winter.

She tried to move the debris to another ceiling tile which looked stable enough to hold the extra weight, although a few pieces still fluttered through the openings in the ceiling and onto the floor below. She was glad that Masterson had worn his protective glasses—the last thing she needed was a team member with God-only-knows-what stuck in his eye.

She grabbed another handful of debris and heard the first little scratching sound—the indication of _something else is in here_. She began to move more slowly, more meticulously, moving things piece by piece.

The sound returned—light and plastic, foreign in a scenario that had been a symphony of slick wires sliding together, wet insulation sucking and plopping, dried out tiles cracking and crunching, and steel beams giving low cool dings. Mac's fingers gently shuffled in the darkness, and even through the numbing latex, they found purchase on a small piece of plastic, now warped by the heat of the explosion.

"Hand me up the camera," she commanded, and Masterson obliged. There was a little bit of uneasiness as she tried to bend down enough to reach the camera in his outstretched hand, but she recovered and re-steadied herself, directing her headlamp back to the area where she'd found the plastic so that she'd have enough light for a clear photograph. Granted, evidence collection protocol would probably have let it slide if she didn't photograph the piece of evidence before removing it, but to be honest, she wanted to be able to show people just how damn hard this thing had been to find.

The photos were taken and the camera was handed back down, and Mac finally reached out to take the plastic bit.

"Watcha got?" Masterson finally asked, his voice etched with curiosity.

Mac frowned slightly, bringing it closer to her face for inspection. "I think it used to be a cellphone."

"Cellphone detonator, one of the easiest ways to go," Jeff supplied. In fact, the London bombings, which also had TATP as their basis, used cellphones as detonators—and Jeff had said as much, during their first day on the case.

Holding her arms out to maintain her balance, Mac slowly sank onto her knees, keeping herself perched atop the ladder (and oh, how her thighs and knees shrieked in protest, still too worn by too much stress and too little sleep). Masterson kept both of his hands firmly on the ladder, but he craned his neck forward to see the fruit of their endeavors.

He lowered his voice, not wishing to be overheard by their on-looking audience, "Question is: does this affect our theory of the crime?"

She made a small noise of approval for the question, although she didn't have an answer. Jeff removed his left hand from the ladder, reaching into the pocket of his jumpsuit to pull out an evidence bag. Mac deposited the disfigured plastic into the bag, giving a slight shake of her head, "Right now, all this means is that our bomb was meant to go off at a specific time."

"But does that also mean it had a specific target?" Jeff returned easily. Now both of his hands were off the ladder as he sealed the evidence bag and took a pen from his pocket, scribbling all the necessary information onto the bag's label. Absentmindedly, he warned, "Don't take any swan dives, 'kay, boss?"

"I won't move a muscle 'til your hands are back on the ladder," she promised.

"Atta girl."

She gave a huff at that— _girl_ had been a moniker lost to her many eons ago. Still, she smiled, because she saw that her feigned derision made Jeff Masterson smile in turn.

"You have a sister, don't you?" She guessed. That kind of teasing screamed of having a sibling to practice on for years.

"Three, actually."

"You were the baby, the long-awaited son?"

"My family really strove to be stereotypical in every way." He confirmed dryly.

She laughed at that. This was her first case in the field with her team, so she was still learning Jeff and Rowena's personalities and quirks. She decided that she definitely liked Masterson's easy self-effacing humor—and she liked that fact that it was still intact after four long days of grueling work even more. Being able to keep a sense of humor was just as important as having it in the first place, especially in their line of work. Anyone could crack a joke at the office—but to still be smiling and relatively sane after what they'd been through, now _that_ was a challenge.

"I'm gonna see if I can find any more pieces," she informed him, waiting until he'd set down the evidence bag and resumed his grip on the ladder before rising to her full height and returning to the rafters again.

A few more suspicious bits of debris were added to the evidence collection, and then Mac descended from her perch.

"Couldn't have done it without your support, Agent Masterson," she quipped, peeling off her headlamp and face mask.

"Just doin' my job, ma'am," he deadpanned in return, resting his elbow on the ladder like a cowboy leaning on a hitching post.

Mac opened her mouth to reply, but she was cut short by the ringing of her phone. She unzipped her jumpsuit to retrieve the cell from the front pocket of her jeans, feeling a wave of trepidation when she saw the name on her caller ID.

"It's Gosslee." She announced. Jeff made a small sound of surprise as well. She answered, "Don't tell me you've already got something."

"Oh, my dear, but I do," Gosslee was practically crowing with self-delight.

"You've only had the thing for like—"

"Almost ten hours straight."

Mac stopped for a moment. She'd forwarded the samples to Goss late last night, but she hadn't expected the woman to start looking at them until this morning. "Jesus, Shelley, when's the last time you slept?"

"The older you get, the less sleep you need. It sucks most of the time, but right now, it comes in pretty handy."

"You have not been staring at a bunch of numbers and letters for ten hours."

"I haven't. Not entirely, anyways. But that's not the point—don't you wanna know what I've found?"

"I'm honestly not sure," Mac admitted, slinging the camera case over her shoulder. Behind her, Jeff had gathered the evidence bags and was telling the clean-up crews that it was safe to go back to work.

"This is the most beautiful frickin' forgery I have ever seen," Goss pronounced. Her tone was tinged with awe at its creator, and still a hefty dose of delight at her ability to spot the fake.

Mac stopped moving again. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely. Well, ninety-five percent sure. Maybe eight-seven. OK, like seventy-five percent—"

"Normally I am the first person to appreciate your sense of humor, Goss, but right now—"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry—there are always factors that can be interpreted either way. Which is why I'm assuming the first analyst said it was a match. He was looking to prove that it was, so he discounted the very same evidence that I'm using to prove that it isn't, if that makes sense."

"Despite your convoluted delivery, yes, it does make sense, actually."

"Look, it's gonna be a thousand times easier for me to show you how I've come to this conclusion if I can physically _show_ you. Can we set up a skype-date for later this afternoon?"

"Sure," Mac gave a curt nod of agreement. "I'll need some time to round up the lead investigator on the case—he'll definitely want to be a part of this. And we have some evidence of our own that needs top priority right now, so—"

"Well, say no more, my dear. Text me a time, whenever you figure it out, and I'm all yours."

"I adore you more than is proper, Shelley Gosslee," Mac admitted, and without even turning around, she could feel Masterson's amusement at the pronouncement.

"Good. Proper's overrated." With that, Goss disconnected the call.

"Good news?" Jeff Masterson guessed. He made absolutely no attempt to pretend as if he hadn't been eavesdropping.

"I think so." Mac was smiling again. "At least for your friends in the BAU."

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Penelope Garcia really, really wished that she'd been able to wear heels—or, at least, _a_ heel—because without them, she felt decidedly less ready for battle. However, one ankle was already in a splint, and it didn't seem wise to try and hop around on crutches in a four-inch stiletto.

Unsurprisingly, Derek Morgan sensed her lack of certainty, because he gently set his hand on the small of her back, taking a moment to simply look at her before they entered the double glass doors of the Academy. "Just remember, Babygirl, you're the one they need right now. You're the smartest one in the room, and no matter what they say, they're in _your_ house, OK?"

She gave a small nod.

"We're doing this for Reid," he reminded her gently.

"For Reid," she echoed, her voice bolstering up a sense of determination that she didn't quite feel. Of course, she was ready to help, and dead-set on clearing her beloved doctor by the end of the day, but she was going to be doing so in an environment that wasn't nearly as cozy and comforting as her lair in the main building.

There was the added matter of working with Sura Roza, who wouldn't exactly be taking home any prizes for warmth and charm, based on their previous phone conversation. Even when Roza had called her back to request Garcia's official help on the case, the woman had been cool and concise.

Penelope didn't do well in hostile environments. And Morgan couldn't stay there, holding her hand or hovering over her shoulder like a guardian angel for the entire day—although he would, if she asked him to. She felt bad for even thinking it, and worse for knowing that it was true.

 _That man would follow your lead in a heartbeat._ Sam had thrown that at her, when she'd broken up with him just a few nights ago (was it really such a short time ago, why did it feel like ages and centuries had passed since then?). He'd assumed that their split had something to do with her relationship to Morgan, and she'd assured him that it wasn't the case. His response had simply been that it wasn't the case only because Penelope hadn't given Morgan the right amount of encouragement—yet.

She didn't like that—being made to feel like some kind of tawdry other woman, as if she could pull a man into a world-toppling situation with a mere crook of her finger. Granted, she was well-aware of her own sex appeal, and she knew that a certain type of guy couldn't help but fall head over heels for her certain type of girl, but this implication was different.

It was different because Derek Morgan wasn't that type of guy. It was different because Derek Morgan was her closest friend. It was different because Derek Morgan deserved to be utterly happy and he was well on his way to achieving that with his current romantic relationship and Penelope didn't like the idea of being some kind of potential stumbling block, something to be watched with caution and distrust, instead of merely being his supportive best friend.

For the briefest of flashes, she felt a wave of righteous anger towards her now ex-boyfriend, for planting this doubtful seed, for creating this current oddness between her and her best friend.

She was angrier at the fact that there was truth in the statement.

"Y'okay?" Morgan's gentle voice brought her back to the present.

"I'm fine," she assured him, moving through the door that he was holding open for her.

"I can stay a while, if you want me to," he offered. Again, she kind of hated herself for so easily predicting his behavior.

"No, I don't think it's necessary." She stopped and turned to face him, "In fact, I think it's best if I take it from here—on my own."

He blinked as if he'd been slapped, but quickly recovered. "Whatever you think is best, babydoll."

That wasn't what he'd wanted to say, but he was obviously trying to play by their new rules and give her space.

 _That man would follow your lead in a heartbeat._

Penelope forced a smile. "You're a good man, Derek Morgan."

"You bring it out in me, Penelope Garcia," he returned just as easily. Except he wasn't wearing his usual flirty smirk. He was being honest—no teasing, no playing involved.

"I'll call you when I need a ride back," she offered another smile—this one soft, almost apologetic.

"Sure thing," he waved her off and turned to go. She felt a pang of jealousy at how quickly and how easily he moved, without injury or encumbrances.

Penelope took a moment to watch him leave, then turned on her heel, steadying herself on her crutches. They all had jobs to do, to bring Spencer home. It was time to do hers.

She hadn't been in the Academy in years, but Sura Roza had given clear directions on how to find the small office that was serving as the investigation's headquarters. The door was open, and when Penelope stepped into the doorway, the older woman at the desk looked up expectantly.

"Ah, Miss Garcia." She rose to her feet. She was short, with wide hips and hair that had once been strikingly ginger, but was now faded to a brassier shade—a common fate for all natural redheads. The copper strands were swept into a serviceable chignon, but all other concessions to vanity were nonexistent, besides mascara to give her naturally-blonde lashes some kind of form. She was Penelope's polar opposite—jeans and a button-down under a cable-knit sweater, with low-heeled boots that probably would have been at-home on a farm. Her one piece of jewelry was a simple wedding band, which shone from the hand that she currently extended in greeting.

"Sura Roza," she announced, her accent clean and concise, just as it had been in every conversation before. Penelope shook her hand with a small smile, and then the older woman motioned to the corner of the room opposite her own work station, where another folding table had been set up, with a desk chair. "I've got some guys bringing over the rest of the stuff you requested from your own office. They should be here soon."

Penelope merely nodded, moving towards the area that would be her home-away-from-home until the case was closed and the main building was restored. She gratefully took a seat, her sore arms reminding her just how out of practice she was when it came to crutches.

"Coffee, tea, anything?" Roza was still polite, despite the antiseptic nature of her tone.

"I'm good for now," Penelope informed her.

Now Roza seemed at a loss. She glanced around the room for a moment, opened her mouth, closed it again, clasped her hands in front of her and sighed.

"I, um." She stopped and looked down at the floor. She didn't seem particularly embarrassed or nervous, just unsure of how to continue. With another deep breath, though, she charged forward, "Look, Ms. Garcia, I know our teams—even ourselves in particular—haven't exactly started out on the best foot. That doesn't matter to me. I'm not someone who needs to be liked."

Penelope was already well-aware of this aspect of Roza's personality, but she kept silent.

The older woman continued, lifting her head to keep eye contact with the blonde. "I'm here to do my job, to the best of my ability. And my job is to help catch whoever did this. I may not know much about you, but I know you approach your work with the same intentions—we wouldn't be doing the work that we do for as long as we have, if we didn't feel passionately about bringing some sense of balance and justice to the world."

"I agree," Penelope spoke up, still slightly surprised by how open and honest Roza was being in this moment.

"Good," Roza gave a curt nod of approval. "The point I'm trying to make is this: we don't have to be bosom friends. But let's make some magic happen, OK?"

Now the blonde gave the first genuine smile since she'd walked into the room. She understood that the woman wasn't trying to apologize for her brusque behavior, or even excuse it—this was a statement of facts, not a plea to emotions. It was a declaration of war on a common enemy, and a truce between them and their respective teams. Roza wasn't looking for forgiveness, but rather a committed ally, someone who could push past hurt feelings and do their best to help bring about justice. Penelope could deal with those terms—so she merely opened her hands in a welcoming gesture.

"Magic is my specialty."

* * *

Jack Dawson sat at the large table that took up the lion's share of the conference room, rocking back in his seat as his eyes scanned the two dry-erase boards that now contained everything they knew of Linnea Donovan Charles' movements and connections over the past four days. Cruz and O'Donnell had worked tirelessly throughout the morning and afternoon, speaking with Linnea's husband, coworkers, and even Jordan Strauss. Dawson had called Johnny Adams as well—but there were definitely still some gaps in the coverage of Linnea's timeline. None of this pointed to a direct connection to either Maura Morrow or Spencer Reid, much less Benjamin Fuller.

Cruz and O'Donnell were out on a much-needed late lunch break, and Keller had called about fifteen minutes earlier to tell him that Jude was out of surgery and would slowly begin coming out of anesthesia. Shostakovich had left the scene at Morrow's house and was en route back to Quantico. Everyone seemed to have something to do or somewhere to be except Jack Dawson. It was not a feeling he enjoyed.

There was a light knock on the door—so light that at first, he thought maybe he'd imagined it. But then the door opened and Adelaide Macaraeg's face cautiously appeared.

"Hope I'm not disturbing anything." She wore an apologetic expression. With her severe features, it looked more like a grimace.

"Not at all," he swiveled his chair so that he could face her. He gestured to another chair at the table, "What can I do for you, SSA Macaraeg?"

"Please, as I've said before, call me Mac."

"Only if you call me Jack." He gave a faint smile. "Mac and Jack. We sound like a comedy duo."

"Well, this case has been a real laugh riot from start to finish, hasn't it?" She was too weary to even smile at her own joke, although her tone still held an amused air. She settled into a vacant chair, her eyes flicking up to meet Jack's. When they'd first met, Jack had been struck by the amber hue of her irises—it was the kind of color you saw in vampire eyes in those schlocky teen movies, not the thing you'd expect to see in real life—but right now, in this ill-lit room, they looked inky black. The change in eye color made her seem more solid, more tired, and more sympathetic (although those last two might just be what she was actually feeling at the moment, he supposed).

Mac took a light, barely perceptible breath, as if she were setting herself to an unpleasant task. Her eyebrows quirked downward and her already-thin lips practically disappeared into a straight line.

"Jack, you can't keep Spencer Reid in custody much longer," she spoke quietly and calmly, just barely removing the tone of authority from her voice. She wasn't used to deferring to others on cases, Jack could tell that, and he respected her restraint in this situation.

"I have to be sure," he returned in the same low tone. But he wasn't really disagreeing with her, and they both knew it.

"It's been almost forty-eight hours since you arrested him."

"It's been only forty-eight hours since I've realized that he was in danger of being murdered by someone responsible for an attack on the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he re-arranged the statement.

Mac closed her eyes and ducked her head, as if acquiescing to the change of wording. However, it didn't stop her from continuing, "I understand why you had reason to believe that it might be someone close to him, but honestly, Jack, we've got Maura Morrow now. She's our prime suspect. Benjamin Fuller was the inside man, and he's gone. You and I both know that the probability of more accomplices isn't high. For the same reason most conspiracy theories don't hold up—because the more people you involve, the less likely that it stays a secret, or even goes according to plan."

She shifted in her seat. "Which brings me to our next issue: I don't think the bombing went according to plan."

Jack wasn't surprised by this pronouncement. He simply waited for Mac to continue.

"Fuller's journals indicated that there was some kind of detonator on the bomb. We didn't find anything like that in our initial evidence collection. However, after reading that, Masterson and I went back up to the ninth floor." She pulled an evidence bag from her winter coat, lightly tossing it onto the conference table. The slick plastic slid easily across the table, stopping just a few inches from him. "We're pretty sure it's the remains of a cellphone. One of the easiest triggers to use for long-range detonations. Right now we're not sure if that changes anything, in regards to the theory of the crime, but it does mean that the bomb went off before it was supposed to."

"All those innocent people," Dawson murmured, gingerly picking up the mangled plastic through its protective bag.

"Beg pardon?"

"Della Fuller, Benjamin's mother, said that in his last phone call to her, he kept mentioning all those innocent people who were killed or injured in the blast."

Mac sat back slightly. "Well, I guess that gives further credence to the idea that the bomb was designed for a very specific target. Someone that Fuller didn't think was innocent."

"The package itself was addressed to the BAU," Dawson pointed out.

"Doesn't mean that they were the actual target."

"No," he slid the evidence back across the table. "Doesn't mean that they weren't, either."

She simply shrugged. He had a point.

After a beat of silence, Mac spoke up again. "There's one last thing. My analyst in New York. She's convinced that the list of addresses is a forgery. She wants to show us over Skype this afternoon. Whatever time works best for you."

"I'm ready when you are," he was slightly distracted, his mind already turning with another line of thought. "Afterwards, I'm gonna have to sit down with Aaron Hotchner. It's time we had a talk, I think."

* * *

" _One thing about them tables, baby…they always turn."_

 _~Unknown._

* * *

 _ ***Author's Note: Another mental casting…which maybe I've shared before, but just in case—for Sura Roza, I always think of Megan Follows. In fact, her line to Garcia in this chapter about "bosom friends" is a nod to Follows' iconic turn as Anne of Green Gables.***_


	34. Step by Step, Second by Second

**Step by Step, Second by Second**

" _It's the little details that are vital. Little things make big things happen."_

 _~John Wooden._

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Ever a woman of her word, Hooch was ready for a video conference within three minutes of Mac's phone call. The video was a bit shaky, since she'd opted to use her smart phone, but she'd deemed it necessary, so that she could show them every bit of evidence that needed visual explanation.

Mac and Dawson were still at the conference table, this time seated side-by-side as they stared at the laptop in front of them. Shostakovich, O'Donnell, and Cruz had all returned and were standing behind them, watching as well.

Dawson made sure the laptop's speakers were turned all the way up as Hooch launched into her explanation. The screen showed the list of addresses, which Hooch had projected on the wall from her digital microscope. "Now, look how close the numbers are on these zip codes—they're long, stilted, and very tightly knit. When we zoom in on this one, something interesting shows up."

The zip code she'd chosen was 20707—Laurel, Maryland. With her fingertip, she drew their attention to the first zero. "See here, right between this zero and this seven? There's a small, single mark. Like the writer put the pen there, very lightly, and then moved away."

She further magnified the two numbers in question, so that the only things visible on the laptop's screen was the outer curve of the zero and the bottom half of the seven. As stated, a small dot rested between the two marks—something that would have been imperceptible to the naked eye.

"Okay," Dawson wasn't sure why that mattered, but he was determined to follow along. Mac trusted this woman, and despite her bizarre appearance, Shelley Gosslee did seem to know what she was doing.

"Notice, there isn't the same mark near the second zero." The greatly-magnified paper moved upwards, and the screen shook again as Hooch tried to hold her phone in one hand and rearrange the paper with her other. "Now, let's look at another one."

This time, they were greeted with 21273—a zip code in Baltimore.

"Look in-between the two and the seven, see anything familiar?"

"Another mark," Shostakovich spoke up, speaking slowly. His brain was tracking, beginning to detect the significance.

"That's right," Hooch's voice was filled with delight. "But the address below it—the one with the 21275 zip code. See any marks?"

"No." Dawson answered this time.

Mac spoke up, "The first address isn't written in the same ink."

"No, it isn't," Hooch returned warmly. Obviously, that fed into the theory. "It's hard to notice, when it's not magnified—but the first address' ink is slightly thinner, and you can see it does a jammy build up at the end of each word. The ink is old and poor quality to begin with. It's used for the first two addresses on the list, but the rest are written in a different ink. Smoother, thicker, no globs at the ends of words or numbers."

The page on the screen scrolled again, giving them a view of the remaining addresses and their zip codes. "Interestingly enough, that dot only appears on those two addresses. Only on the two where the ink changes."

"OK, and what does that mean?" Dawson felt a slight wave of irritation for how long this seemed to be taking and how lost he was at this point.

Still, there was a smile in Gosslee's voice. "Give me two more minutes of your time, Agent Dawson. It'll make sense soon."

The camera whipped around, and they were greeted by Gosslee's cheery, bespectacled face. "Now. First, the ink changes. Let's assume the change in ink indicates a different instance—the addresses weren't all written at once. Second, these dots only appear on the first zipcode of each set—presumably when our UNSUB starts writing. Third, these dots only appear before sevens, and only before the first seven in each new writing batch."

Shostakovich made a small noise, as if he suddenly understood. However, he didn't elaborate—this was Gosslee's show, he'd let her run it.

The camera flipped back to an empty sheet of paper. Gosslee's hand appeared, this time with a pen. "Now, why would you put a dot before a seven like that?"

The pen scratched out the number 7, then drew a line through the middle, making it 7.

"The European seven," Shostakovich commented.

"That's its common name, yes," Gosslee returned. "It's often used if the writer's style makes it harder to differentiate between ones and sevens—from the same school of thought that puts a line through zero to differentiate it from O, and a lines through Z to differentiate from two. And it does seem to be more widely used in European and Latin American countries."

Mac and Dawson exchanged glances. Maura Morrow was originally from the U.K. and spent several years in continental Europe as well. Had she grown up learning to put a mid-line through her seven?

Although he was pretty certain of the meaning, Dawson still asked for clarity, "What exactly is your deduction here, Agent Gosslee?"

"I checked the other samples you sent me—the handwritten fields notes, which by the way, I gotta say, what unit chief is letting _that_ happen?" Gosslee didn't wait for an answer, but continued on with her editorial, "The original writer never crosses through his sevens—and when compiling a series of numbers, there isn't a single instance where that dot-before-a-seven thing occurs. Ever."

"So, this list of addresses was forged," Mac gave a small nod.

"Most likely. And most likely by someone who usually crossed his sevens. Obviously, he writes down the numbers in this new, forged hand, but each time, he has to stop himself from crossing the seven—it's an ingrained habit, even when he's mimicking someone else's hand. He remembers it for the rest of the time he's writing, but when he comes back later to pick up the writing again, he almost makes the same mistake."

Dawson crossed his arms over his chest, "What's your level of certainty that this is a forgery?"

"Given what I've got in front of me? Like 80%. Maybe 75%. Whoever did this is a virtuoso at forgery—you see, most people mimic a word they've seen written by their target. They copy it verbatim, every loop, every crook, and that's what trips them up. Think about it: you never actually sign your name exactly the same way twice. It's statistically improbable. The basis of your signature will most likely be the same—the way you shape your S or your R, or the way you let the last leg of your M slant further down than the rest of your text—but factors like emotional state, the type of pen or paper, or even the type of document you're signing and how big of a hurry you're in when you're signing it, will all influence nuances in your signature. This forger was aware of the fact that handwriting is mutable, and that it never follows an entirely set pattern. There are enough points of similarity to make it _seem_ like the same author, but enough differences to keep it from looking _too_ perfect, if that makes sense."

Scott O'Donnell rubbed his forehead. He was beginning to think that he should start drinking whisky instead of coffee at this point.

The camera turned back to Gosslee's face, and this time, she gave a small, apologetic smile, "Truth is, Agent Dawson, there's really no way to be 100% certain at this point. It is my professional opinion that this is a forgery, but it's just that—an opinion, and you've already got at least one other expert view that differs from mine."

Dawson cut a glance to his right, where Mac was already watching him with an expression of meticulous neutrality. She wasn't going to weigh in on this—she was letting him lead the investigation, in every way. Dawson wasn't exactly thrilled by the lack of absolute certainty on this new development, but he also decided that they'd wasted enough time on a matter that may never be solved, regardless of the case's outcome.

Instead, he shifted focus slightly, knowing the answer to his next question before he even asked it. "So you believe that this wasn't written by the same person who wrote the action reports. Can you prove who did write it?"

Gosslee's face split into a grin, as if she'd just heard a hilarious joke. "Oh, heavens no! That's like asking me to prove there's a God."

Dawson gave a grim smile of his own. He was pretty sure of the answer on that one, too.

* * *

 _ **National Women's History Museum. Washington, D.C.**_

Jordan Strauss was not her best today, so she'd exiled herself to the collections room, where items were organized and archived for potential future exhibits. After a stressful discussion with the FBI on the whereabouts of Linnea Charles, she dove back into her work with full-force (another trait of her mother's). It didn't take much brain power to open and sort through boxes, and it kept her hands busy, which was important, because it kept them from shaking.

She was currently organizing the newest collection of boxes that had been donated by the family of a recently deceased police woman, who'd been on the force for twenty-odd years before retiring. Some items were of interest and could be used in her upcoming exhibit, and some—well, their value was purely sentimental, but she still regretted not being able to fully display the woman's life. She'd seen firsthand how sometimes a person's career became the focal point of their biography after their death, and how it completely erased the family and loved ones dancing at the edge of the frame. When her mother's official biography had been released by the Bureau, it had been three paragraphs about her career and its many glittering accomplishments, followed by a single sentence: _she is survived by her three children_.

Jordan's father was completely gone from the picture—as if he hadn't spent thirty years of his life being Erin's boyfriend, husband, ex-husband and co-parent. No mention either of Erin's two surviving siblings, her brother Peter who was just as devastated at the loss of the only person who'd been by his side since birth, his beloved Rin-Tin-Tin, or her sister Carol, whose relationship had always been rocky. And Dave Rossi—well, he'd had no sense of recognition at all. He'd been one of her pallbearers, but he hadn't spoken at her funeral. In the eyes of the rest of the world, he'd merely been a colleague from work, someone who'd known Erin for years, but only in the setting of the Bureau.

Then of course, _the_ _situation_ had happened last year—the man who'd claimed that Erin hadn't been killed by the Replicator, and that the real killer was still out there, the man who'd stalked Jordan and her siblings for months until he was finally caught. After that, the final sentence had been removed from Erin Strauss' obituary on the FBI's website.

To protect her children. That had been the excuse. But the result had been an erasure of Erin's personal life entirely. She was no longer a multi-dimensional woman who'd headed the Bureau's most elite unit and who also made the world's best spaghetti sauce, or who'd often spent Sunday nights working on paperwork at her dining room table, with a teenager seated on either side, so that she could occasionally stop to help them with whatever homework they had. There was no mention of her alcoholism, nor how hard she'd worked to reclaim her life from its shaking grip. No mention of the garden in her backyard, where she spent most of spring toiling and replanting and ripping up weeds. No mention of how she often cheated at cards, with such open gleefulness that someone would suspect she was psychotic, or how she was probably the world's strictest parent on things like curfew or the world's best guilt-tripper ( _I've seen what happens to people who go out and never come home, Jordan Elaine, I've been on so many cases that began with someone not answering their phone at half-past their curfew…those are the only things I can think about, until you deign to waltz in, forty-five minutes late_ ).

No. In her obituary, she became a name, a badge to cover an occupation. Section Chief Erin Strauss. Nothing more, nothing less. Generic place-holder, footnote on a wall of Bureau losses. Not the center of anyone's world, not anyone's mother or lover or sister or friend. Loyal Bureau worker, beginning and end.

And Jordan, as usual, was helpless to do anything about it. This seemed to be a reccurring theme and emotion in her life lately, and it was neither helpful nor welcome.

Her thoughts were shattered by the harsh ringing of her cellphone, which nearly made her jump out of her skin.

It was Karl Miramontz. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't happy.

"I just got a call from the FBI," Karl informed her. "The F-freaking-B-I. What the hell is going on?"

The question was, of course, rhetorical—obviously, if the FBI had called, then Karl could guess the lay of the land based on what questioned they asked—but Jordan couldn't answer anyways. Emotion swelled in her throat like a tidal wave, forceful and unexpected.

She simply burst into tears, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—this has all just gotten so—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." She could feel Karl physically shrinking back from the sudden onslaught of emotion. "I'm not—I'm not mad at you, Jordan. I'm just…I wanna know what the hell's going on here."

"Me, too," Jordan admitted with a shuddering sob, trying to pull her body back into control. Her shoulders were still shaking and her eyes kept pricking with tears, but she'd stopped the crying, so that was a small victory, she supposed.

"Ok, so let's put our heads together," Karl kept his voice even and calm. "They think that whoever's behind the bomb kidnapped Linnea, right? They aren't saying as much, but c'mon, it's too coincidental, right? Linnea receives advance notice about the bombing, she begins to look into it, and she just _happens_ to be kidnapped? The odds of that not being connected are like…nonexistent."

Jordan made a small noise of agreement, still not trusting herself to use her voice.

"So, what do we know? What did Linnea tell you about the case?"

"Nothing—I—she didn't," Jordan blinked back more tears. She didn't know this man, and suddenly, she got the feeling that she shouldn't have trusted him in the first place. She shouldn't have dragged another person into this web, just like she'd dragged Spencer and Dave and yes, even Linnea. Sure, Linnea had already been onto something on her own, but Jordan had convinced her to go into hiding—and it was that simple act of defiance that had ended with Linnea being kidnapped by some mass-murdering psychopath.

"I can't do this right now," she admitted quickly. "I have to—I need to…I can't."

She hung up.

Carrington had been right. All along, as usual. If there was anyone that she could talk to about this—that she _wanted_ to talk to about this—it was Carrington.

But the woman had made it clear that she didn't want to talk to Jordan.

For the first time, Jordan Strauss truly understood the impulse that had driven her mother to drink.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

Aaron Hotchner glanced around the parking lot of the Academy, more out of ingrained habit than actual concern. He'd received a call from Jack Dawson less than an hour ago, in which Dawson had informed him that there were new developments in the case—developments which could only be discussed in-person, a concept both intriguing and concerning.

He found Dawson in the conference room, which had been converted into the command center for Linnea Charles' abduction. However, they quietly moved into a smaller classroom across the hall, where they were out of the way and out of earshot from anyone else. Obviously the leaks on the case so far had made Dawson rightfully paranoid.

"So, what are these mysterious new developments?" Hotch wasted no time. Aside from his general curiosity, he felt a sense of growing impatience. If Dawson was letting him back in the loop, it meant the BAU was no longer under suspicion. If the BAU was no longer under suspicion, then it meant that it was safe to release Spencer Reid. And the sooner that happened, the better.

"Two things," Dawson didn't take a seat. Instead he paced to the end of the classroom and turned again. "First, we've discovered that the bomb had a timer."

"So there was a specific detonation time," Hotch surmised. "And possibly a specific target."

"Could change everything; could change nothing," Dawson held out his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "Mac and her team are still working on that. The second thing is that we sent the handwriting off to another analyst, last night. About ninety minutes ago, she informed us that the list of addresses in what appears to be Dr. Reid's hand is most likely a forgery."

He could see the downward shift of Aaron Hotchner's shoulders, as if the man had finally released the breath that he'd been holding for days now.

"And you agree with her assessment?" Despite this news, Hotchner's face still gave no indication of his feelings about this pronouncement.

Dawson gave a curt nod. "She showed us some very compelling evidence."

"How soon will you release Dr. Reid?"

Ah, the million dollar question. Now Dawson glanced at the floor, slipping his hands into his pockets. "We're still working on that."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

Dawson's ice blue eyes rose to meet Hotchner's dark ones. "It means that I'm still having my analyst run cross-references on every single member of the BAU, against any possible contact with Maura Morrow or Benjamin Fuller. Because despite what y'all _think_ I'm doing to Dr. Reid, I am trying to protect him. I won't send him back to the people he trusts, only to find out that I missed something and his life is in danger again—and that maybe this time, we won't be able to get to him in time."

Hotchner didn't respond. He understood Dawson's reluctance—it was a an angle he would have had to consider, had their situations been reversed. "You're afraid that if by some slim chance Morrow does have another co-conspirator, they might tie up the last remaining loose end."

Dawson nodded with a heavy sigh. "I know the odds are slim, but hell, this whole situation is nothing but slim odds making it through. We can't guarantee that we'll find Linnea, alive or otherwise, and once Reid is out of the way, Morrow can claim it was all his idea, claim that he coerced her or brainwashed her or whatever the hell else she can come up with, and he won't be able to refute it—because he'll be dead. I won't let that happen, and I won't let this woman get away with what she's done."

Then entire time, Dawson held Hotchner's gaze. He wasn't bluffing, and he wasn't budging. As frustrating as this was for Aaron, he still respected Dawson for it.

"Understood," Hotch gave a curt nod, fighting back the urge to reassert the BAU's innocence. They were alike in many respects and Hotch knew that Dawson would need to see it for himself (because that's exactly how Hotch would feel, if the tables were turned and an agent's life potentially hung on his decision). There wouldn't be anything to implicate his team, so he would simply wait and let the truth speak for itself, despite how uncomfortable waiting felt.

"None of this is really why I asked to meet with you," Dawson waved away the thought. He finally sat, settling into a class desk. Hotchner followed suit, coming back down to Dawson's eye level.

"Then why am I here?" Hotch's curiosity came back full-force.

"Because I trust you, and I trust your ability to do what you do," Dawson made another vague motion with his hand, as if perhaps referring to the act of analyzing behavior. "Of course, we want to find Morrow. But right now, Linnea Charles is still a top priority. We've basically split it into two separate investigations, but neither have been able to give any clue as to where Linnea might be. You know as well as I do that the clock is ticking—and the fact that Morrow isn't here anymore means that there isn't anyone to care for Linnea, if she is still alive."

"And what if she isn't?" Hotch's dark eyes watched Dawson's reaction like a hawk.

There was a waver in the other agent's expression, as if the idea had taken the wind out of his sails. However, Dawson quickly recovered his usual stoic mask. "Then we need to find her body, so that we can charge Maura Morrow with her death. Either way, we need to find Linnea Charles."

Hotch nodded in agreement.

Dawson frowned slightly. "Now I know just enough about behavioral analysis to be dangerous. But I do know that we have to start with victimology—especially in this case. We need to figure out why Morrow kidnapped Linnea—and why she targeted her in the first place."

"The initial reason seems to be Linnea's connection to the BAU," Hotch started with the obvious. "She's Maeve's sister, and Maeve's death was easily deemed a crucial factor in selecting Spencer Reid as the target. Having Reid reach out to Linnea makes it seem as if he's doing all of this to avenge Maeve."

"That explains sending her the email that's allegedly from Dr. Reid—but that doesn't explain the kidnapping."

"Linnea's a reporter. She started asking questions."

Dawson gave a small nod, as if this were a line of inquiry that he'd already considered. "We've been speaking to the people who saw her last. John Adams, another reporter, mentioned that Linnea had already worked out that she'd received the email _before_ the bomb had actually gone off."

"So she was already unraveling the case," Hotch surmised. "Perhaps she was getting too close for comfort."

"And, what? Morrow thinks that Linnea can somehow implicate her, in a way that the FBI can't?" Dawson's expression quirked into a mixture of concern and curiosity. "What did Linnea stumble upon that we haven't figured out yet?"

"I think we need to speak to John Adams again."

Dawson made a noise of agreement, which was interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. He quickly answered, "What've you got for me, Roza?"

His blue eyes widened. Then he glanced back at Hotchner. "They know where Morrow's going to be in two days."

He rose to his feet, obviously going to join Roza and Garcia in their headquarters. He motioned for Hotch to follow him, although Hotchner was already on his feet, right behind him.

Despite their difference in height, their long strides were evenly matched, and they quickly ate up the distance between the classroom and the office.

Both Roza's and Garcia's heads snapped up at the sound of the door opening. Garcia's face lit up like the sun at the sight of Hotch. "Hiya, sir."

Hotch gave her one of his rare smiles. "Good to see you're finally back at work."

It was a joke, a secret meant to be shared between them, although Jack and Sura were both well-aware of the fact that Penelope Garcia had been working on this case long before Sura had called her in.

"How do you know where Morrow's going to be in two days?" Dawson returned his focus to his own technical analyst.

Roza, however, pointed back towards Garcia. "All this lady, right here."

However much Roza didn't care for working with others, she still was one who gave credit where credit was due.

Now Dawson and Hotchner gave the blonde analyst their full attention.

"Alright, so, I looked through all of Morrow's personal information—bank statements, parking tickets, you name it. I found that she has a safety-deposit box at Metropolitan Security and Trust, which is in London." At this point, Garcia gave a slight glance towards Hotch, "Our connections at Interpol were able to get more information. Apparently they get warrants at lightspeed, compared to us, which must be nice—"

"Garcia—"

"Right, boss, to the point—Interpol just called us back a few minutes ago. Yes, Maura Morrow still has a box with them. And more importantly, she called them yesterday afternoon, to schedule an appointment to see her box. The thing is, today's Saturday, and their branch isn't open on the weekends—"

"So she can't access her box until Monday," Dawson concluded.

"Good work," Hotch nodded.

"Do we really think she'll wait around two more days?" Dawson looked at Hotch, his face etched with concern.

"She wouldn't have agreed to schedule the visit if she wasn't going to," Hotch returned easily. "Unless she knows how close we are and is deliberately throwing us off-track. Either way, it's our best bet, at the moment."

"True. But what's in the box that's worth giving investigators two more days to catch you?"

"We can hazard a guess on that, too." Roza informed her boss. With another motion towards Garcia, as if crediting her for the find, she added, "The last time Morrow visited her box was a little over a year ago—about six months after John Curtis' death. It's also the last time that she flew back to the US from England. Which means, most likely, that's when she took her sister's passport."

"And Morrow's sister hasn't gotten a new one, or noticed the old one was missing?" Dawson was incredulous.

"People just put them away and forget about them, until they need them," Roza shrugged. "Maybe the sister hasn't traveled internationally in over a year. It's highly possible."

"Find out for sure," Dawson instructed, and she gave a nod in return.

"Perhaps Morrow forged a copy of her sister's passport," Hotch spoke up. "It wouldn't be too hard to do, if you know the right people. And it would be less conspicuous—she returns the original and no one's the wiser because the passport isn't actually missing."

"She's definitely clever enough to have thought of that," Roza piped up. "And now, back to what I was saying. If this is when she gets her sister's passport—or at least a copy of it—then it means that she was already preparing an escape route. It stands to reason that if she's already planning on using one false identity, why not take another?"

"So…you think her safety-deposit box has more fake passports?" Dawson glanced at both of the technical analysts, who were smiling at their own detective work.

"Well, we won't know for sure until we open it up," Roza held out her hands in a gesture of uncertainty.

"That would be a valid reason for waiting," Hotch added. "She needs to leave the country under a different name. To throw us off the trail."

"But she never expected to get caught. That's what Benjamin Fuller was for," Dawson pointed out.

"She's learned from Curtis' mistakes. She has multiple contingency plans, and she seems to be enacting all of them," Hotch returned. "She's meticulous, and thorough. She's not leaving anything to chance."

"We need a full profile on this woman," Dawson intoned quietly. He gave a nod to Garcia and Roza, "Good work. Let's see what else we can find."

"Aye, sir," Garcia gave a curt salute and returned her attention to her computer. Roza held his gaze for a beat, then gave a nod. He understood the meaning behind her expression—she was continuing with her foray into the backgrounds and personal lives of the BAU, making sure there wasn't even the slightest hint of a connection, however small, between any of them and Maura Morrow.

Dawson turned to go, sparing one last glance at Hotchner, "We need to move quickly."

The BAU chief nodded in agreement. He understood the unspoken part of that statement, too—they needed to find Linnea Charles, and they needed to find her now.

* * *

" _The hands on a clock never falter, not for a second. One day ends; and a new begins. If there was one thing on this earth that could be counted on, it was that. Time never paused."_ _  
_ _~Patti Roberts._


	35. Derail, Diverge, Converge

**Derail, Diverge, Converge**

" _Carry the battle to them. Don't let them bring it to you. Put them on the defensive and don't ever apologize for anything."_ _  
_ _~Harry S. Truman._

* * *

 _ **Two Days Earlier. Washington, D.C.**_

If Maura Morrow had to pinpoint an exact moment at which her plans began to derail, she wouldn't choose the moment that the bomb went off unexpectedly, or even the moment that she ruined her chances of making Benjamin Fuller's death look like a suicide.

No, she'd choose the moment that Todd Wilkes from _The District Times_ had called her back.

She'd called Mr. Wilkes on the morning of the bombing—after the explosion, as the mad scramble began. They'd still been lucky, because the incriminating email from Dr. Reid to Linnea Charles had already been sent before the accidental detonation. The main target of Morrow's vengeance was thwarted, but she could still uphold her unspoken vow to John Curtis and continue to implicate the BAU.

Obviously, her own aims for the attack were lost, from the moment the bomb went off. She'd accepted that, and she'd comforted herself with knowing that if she played her cards right and kept all her resources intact, she'd get another chance, later on. Even after losing Benjamin, Maura still believed that she could prevail, against the odds—in her mind, there weren't hardly any odds at all. There wasn't a single connection between her and Fuller, except that he'd been a fan of her work. She'd been careful in covering her tracks, and so there was no need to worry.

She'd used the burner phone to call the newspaper and leave an anonymous tip, but she hadn't ditched the phone—it might be useful again, she'd told herself. Then the phone had rung twenty-four hours later. She didn't answer, of course, but she listened to the voicemail as soon as it was left.

And that was when, with startling clarity, she realized that she'd made a mistake. If Todd Wilkes could track her down, even through an anonymous tip line, then it stood to reason that anyone could. That wasn't an issue, per se—the real issue was that particular number would show up again in Benjamin Fuller's phone records (because once they realized that it was a murder and not a suicide, they'd certainly examine every inch of Fuller's life).

It was possible that Wilkes would never speak to the FBI, that he'd never make the connection, that this phone number would never have the chance to be recognized—but this late in the game, chances weren't something worth risking.

Maura Morrow filled with the sinking certainty that in the end, they would know that she was connected to this scheme. Even if the FBI didn't get this number and realize it was connected to Benjamin, what if he'd left behind something else that incriminated her, like those damn journals? What if she'd missed something, somehow?

The uncertainty was more crippling than the actual consequences of her actions. Maura was not a woman who quavered or quibbled, and yet here she was, like the proverbial squirrel in the middle of the road.

The feeling of invincibility that had enveloped her the night of Benjamin's murder was completely evaporated. Now she felt cracked open, the sensation of vulnerability making her skin feel physically raw. Every nerve ending sang and whined with desperation and anxiety.

It was not a feeling to be relished.

She decided that it was time to make a graceful exit—she'd had an escape plan in place for almost two years now, and she silently thanked her former self for the foresight and lack of hubris. That was yet another lesson learned from John Curtis' ending. John had always assumed that he was so intellectually far above anyone else that he'd never need a Plan B, much less an exit strategy, because all of his plots were too clever to fail.

She knew better than that. Even her escape plan had a chance of failing.

If there was one thing that Maura couldn't stand, it was loose ends. At this point, only one such end existed: Linnea Charles.

The burner phone was used one last time to call Charles' office. The receptionist had cheerfully informed her that Charles was attending a meeting at _The District Times_.

Which was where Wilkes worked. The light bulb all but shattered in Maura's brain. Linnea was obviously talking to other reporters, and they were beginning to solve the case themselves. Now it would only be a matter of time before they took their findings to the FBI. Her so-called anonymous call to the newspaper and its corresponding definitely-not-anonymous phone number would be brought up—and it would only be a matter of time before someone realized the number was one that showed up in Fuller's phone records.

Getting records took time. Subpoenas had to be drawn up, and signed, and enacted. In the meantime, the burner phone could be dumped—however, there would be no escaping the glaring fact that someone other than Benjamin Fuller had been involved. Someone _female_ —not a description that could be pinned on Dr. Reid.

Had she really been as careful as she thought? Over the past few years, had Benjamin really not confided in anyone else about her, about their meetings, their connection? Most importantly: was she willing to gamble everything on her certainty, which was diminishing by the minute?

No. Linnea Charles was both a loose end and a liability. She was also a direct link to Dr. Reid, further proof that he'd acted out of some kind of vengeance for the death of Maeve Donovan, her sister. Fortuitously, she also happened to be female—and a prime target for placing blame.

Of course, if the FBI questioned Linnea, they'd quickly discover that she had absolutely no connection to the attack whatsoever, much less an actual connection to Dr. Reid. In fact, she'd be helpful in Reid's defense, she could prove his innocence.

That left only one option. The FBI could not be allowed to speak to Linnea Charles.

And there really seemed to be only one way to ensure that.

* * *

 _ **Two Days Later. Serenity Yoga Studio. Washington, D.C.**_

Ramira Novalisa Bustamente let out a slow, measured breath as she pushed back with her arms, smoothly transitioning from upward dog to downward dog. Unlike most of the other women in the room, she actually hoped that someone noticed her ass in this position because, let's face it, she had a lot to offer in that department.

In particular, she hoped that the new, fit, and much-younger yoga instructor was taking notice. She also hoped he liked forty-something Cubanas with I-want-to-speak-to-the-manager haircuts and a set of hips that weren't what stereotypically came to mind when one pictured a "yoga body", whatever the hell _that_ was supposed to be. Ramira might not have been a size 0, but thanks to her decades-long love affair with yoga, she was just as flexible as that skin-and-bones twenty-two year old three mats over. Granted, her love for the practice was deeply rooted in her love of how it helped her outside the studio—she spent so much of her daily life in pencil skirts and hobbling heels that it always seemed to shock the men in her life whenever they first had the pleasure of witnessing just what her body could do.

Of course, there was the added benefit of bringing balance and some sense of serenity to her generally fast-paced and soul-crushing line of work, and that was the mantra she usually gave to colleagues and acquaintances. Not everyone needed to know her true motives.

Someone's phone was ringing, and Ramira had the sinking certainty that it was hers—mainly because she was the only person whose day job didn't allow her to simply put it on silent and forget about it. She barely restrained a growl of frustration and momentarily contemplated just letting it ring. However, that would be poor etiquette and would do nothing to aid in her current quest to seduce the new yogi.

So instead, she left her flattering pose and padded on bare feet across the studio, weaving her way between rows of mildly irritated practitioners. _Assholes_. As if she'd _wanted_ to disturb this peacefulness.

The yogi was back at the front of the class now, watching her with mild concern. With her most winning smile, she held up her finger as if to say, _just a second, I have to take this_ , and then demurely slipped into the hallway.

Once she was outside the studio, she answered: "Bustamente speaking."

"Miri." It had been a hot minute since she'd heard that voice, but she recognized Jack Dawson's husky tone immediately.

"Jack," she wavered between irritation and delight. "You betta' have a damn good reason for pulling me out of my afternoon meditation."

She'd lived in the upper circles of the District for twenty years now, and yet she still sounded as if she'd just stepped off her mama's front stoop in the Bronx.

"I'm sure whoever he is, he'll happily wait," Dawson dismissed her mainly-feigned crossness.

And now she allowed herself to grin. Jack had been a fun time, for a few months—several years ago. He'd been between wives, and after a particularly vigorous weekend on Martha's Vineyard, he had even entertained the notion of making her the next Mrs. Dawson. Granted, she didn't blame him, but she'd quickly shut that down—Jack was the settling type, but she most certainly was not. In fact, she'd reminded him that she had two other boyfriends, and another good friend who was a good time every few months (she'd given up all three when she'd taken this new posting, sadly, because her schedule was too hectic and D.C. politics were too brutal—now she was only allowed one-night stands with strangers who didn't recognize her, generally in locales far away from the Capitol). Variety was the spice of life, she'd told him, and she'd wanted her life to stay as spicy and varied as her abuelita's cooking. _Life's a buffet, and I'll be damned if I'm giving it all up_. He'd respected her decision, and although they'd met up a few times after that, she'd felt him slowly pulling away. But she hadn't tightened her grasp. If anything, she'd quietly stepped back, too. Because even if she didn't love him with the kind of all-consuming devotion that would allow her to give up her current lifestyle, she still did love him, in her own way, and she'd never wanted to hurt him. He'd always seemed to understand that, and through the years, they'd remained amicable friends.

"Honey, you know I'm always here for you," she kept her tone light and amused. "But if it was _that_ kind of meditation, I certainly wouldn't have left just to answer your call."

"Miri, you wound me."

"Uh-huh. Sure thing, Jacky. Now whaddya want?"

"I need your help. Extradition."

"From where?" Ramira instantly dropped her smile and her light-hearted mood. This was a work call, and not just any run-of-the-mill work call. Jack Dawson was a straight arrow—this had to be serious.

"UK. We think."

"And why can't you run it through the proper channels, instead of trying to slip it in through your ex-girlfriend?"

"Ex-girlfriend? I never knew you saw us like that."

"You know what I mean, Dawson. Don't you change the subject on me. Which, by the way, is how I know you're up to something—you always get shifty whenever you know you're not on the moral high-ground. You dodge the question."

"Miri, I'm not up to anything—"

"Then you can call a regular attorney and have a judge sign a warrant for extradition, just like every other law enforcement officer in this country. And when it gets to OIA, then we can talk—"

"Oh, please, Ramira. You don't look over every request that goes into the Office of International Affairs—"

"And how do you know what I do?" She couldn't stop herself from challenging him, even when they both knew he was right.

"Because you're the goddamn Assistant Attorney General of the Criminal Division," he was becoming frustrated, an emotion she'd rarely seen in him—and a sure sign that whatever he was asking for, it was big.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Jacky?" Even though she used his old nickname, her voice was still serious, heavy with premonition and dread.

"I'm on the Quantico bombing." He informed her.

She was fully aware of the attack on the Bureau—hell, anyone in the western world with access to TV or newspapers was aware at this point—but her own office had been dealing with other issues, so she hadn't been as fully apprised of all the details as she normally preferred to be.

But the pieces still clicked together. "And your prime suspect has fled the country—to the UK, presumably."

"No, we know for sure that's where she went—whether or not she'll still be there by the time we get a warrant, that's a different story."

"She? Well, that's a new one." Ramira returned her attention back to the more important matter, "We have a pretty good relationship with the Brits. They're one of the best allies in extradition cases. It shouldn't be a problem, if you've got all your ducks in a row. Although they won't give her up unless you can guarantee that the death penalty won't be on the table."

"I have no control over that, Miri."

"Then you need to talk to whichever US Attorney is handling this and tell 'em that they have to put this in writing. The Brits don't play with that kind of stuff."

"Miri," Jack's tone shifted, becoming almost hesitant, almost pleading. Ramira decided that she didn't like this new version. "It's not…there's a lot of circumstantial evidence at this point, and we haven't formally charged her—that's why I'm calling you. We need a little leeway, here—"

"Holy shit, you don't have enough for an extradition warrant." The lightbulb went off—hell, it exploded. "You want me to pull an extraordinary rendition."

An extraordinary rendition was, as its name implied, for extraordinary cases only. Most of the time, the process when like this: your country used extradition to request the return of someone who'd already been convicted or at least charged of a crime. Their running was deemed further proof of their guilt. The country agreeing to the request then performed rendition, a surrendering of the suspect or convict. An extraordinary rendition was basically kidnapping your suspect. Sometimes the host country was informed of this action, and sometimes it wasn't. The United Nations had declared extraordinary rendition a violation of human rights, and despite its prevalence, it was still viewed with disdain.

"Jesus, Ramira, I'm not asking you to ship her to Guantanamo," Jack became defensive. "She'll be brought back to Quantico. For proper questioning. No enhanced interrogation, nothing under the table."

"It's gonna take a helluva salesman to push that through the British channels."

"Or saleswoman."

"Nah-uh, Jack. I see where you're going with this, and I am declining the invitation to join you on this ride through loco-ville. None of this is my area of expertise, and it certainly ain't in my job description—did I mention how much I love my job? How much I want to _keep_ it?" She had to force her voice back into a lower register—she knew that she was almost yelling now, and this wasn't the best time to draw attention. She took a deep breath, "Look, I wanna help, I really do. I'm sure you have nothing but the best of intentions. But it's not just my reputation or even my career on the line here. We're talking about the integrity of the entire Attorney General's office, our nation's credibility—"

"Oh, c'mon, that's been tanked for a solid decade by now—"

"I know that's supposed to be some kind of a joke on your part, Jack, but it's not a laughing matter."

"Do you hear me chuckling?" The edge of frustration in Jack's tone answered the question itself. With a slight sigh he quietly added, "She may have kidnapped a woman, Miri."

"Did she?"

"We're certain—"

"One hundred percent certain? In-possession-of-irrefutable-proof certain?" She challenged, already knowing the answer. "See, the issue is that you're paying attention to _kidnapped_ , and I have to pay attention to _may have_. It's called due process, Jack. Your suspect gets that whole reasonable-doubt and presumed-innocence defense package until you can pull in concrete evidence. And I have to uphold that—it's literally my _job_ , in case you forgot."

"Ramira, you know me." That was all he said, all he needed to say. Because it was true—she did know him, and she knew he didn't make this call lightly, nor did he easily place suspicion on a suspect without a whole lot of good reasoning and a dash of his usually on-point gut feeling.

She took a deep breath—and even in that simple act, she made her frustration known. There was a beat of weighted silence. She didn't want to leave it like this. He'd called her because he'd truly needed her help, perhaps for the first time since they'd met all those years ago. And when it came down to it, she'd failed him. However, she didn't blame herself for it—he was asking too much, and they both knew it.

She shouldn't have said what came next. But she did anyways.

"Listen, Jack. I'm not saying you can't do what you're proposing. I'm just saying I can't know about it." She shook her head at her own foolishness, but she continued anyways. "So just…be careful, OK?"

"Understood," he returned.

"I mean it. I really don't wanna see your ugly mug on the other side of a federal courtroom."

"Ugly mug? Miri, you're really breaking my heart here."

"Your heart ain't broken and your face ain't ugly, and you know it, on both counts."

"You know, I've never met another woman who could give a compliment quite like you."

"That's cuz I'm all original, baby. One of a kind."

"Indeed," his voice was warm with knowing, a tone and shade that Ramira hadn't realized she'd missed until this moment. Then Jack's voice took on a softer quality—another tone she recognized, although she hadn't heard it in many years. "So, how've you been?"

"Nope," was her only reply before she curtly hung up the phone. That tone was trouble, just as much trouble as Jack's other scheme.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

The room was silent, but certainly not peaceful. From his position in the corner of the room, Aaron Hotchner took quick stock of his fellow agents. A few minutes earlier, Jack Dawson had brought him back to the conference room, which was currently incident command for Linnea Charles' kidnapping, and had informed the others that Agent Hotchner was on the case again (although from a technical standpoint, he'd never been officially on the case to begin with). Cruz and O'Donnell had looked relieved, too exhausted to be concerned or even surprised at this new turn of events.

Across the room, there was a dry-erase board with a hastily-written timeline of Linnea's last known movements. Gaps were measured with red-inked question marks, and DMV photos of various players in her final scenes of known activity were taped to certain points in the timeline. It was simple, linear, cut-and-dried. Nothing like an actual person's life, which was fluid and uncertain and certainly not as stable or predictable as a line across a board.

Aaron took this into consideration as he glanced around the room again. Dawson had stepped out to make a phone call, during which time Shostakovich had called in to give a brief recap of his interview with John Adams. Cruz had jotted down a few points of interest, while O'Donnell paced at the other end of the room, fielding calls from various friends, family, and acquaintances of Linnea Charles, trying to further expand their timeline and to set up more one-on-one interviews, which he then had to assign to the agents who'd come down from the DC Field Office to conduct the initial interviews of the Quantico employees. Aaron could sense O'Donnell's uneasiness, the underlying sense of mistrust that he now felt towards the newcomers—and he didn't blame the Quantico SAC, since the Flying Js had so thoroughly turned his branch and his sense of trust on their heads.

This whole case had that effect. It took away the sense of security that was the foundation of every investigation—pivotal and irreplaceable. Without that sense of balance, the world became incomprehensible, which translated to overwhelming—especially for a man like Scott O'Donnell, who lived a life in straight lines of duty, honor, responsibility, and rules. Every aspect of this investigation challenged that, and in turn, challenged O'Donnell's reality. And all the while, the man was still expected to run the most well-known branch of the Bureau, which was currently in the national spotlight, and to head two separate investigations, either one of which was stressful enough on its own.

Aaron Hotchner realized that when it came to professional success, he never wanted to be any further up the chain of command than his current position. He didn't envy Cruz or O'Donnell for the extra scrutiny and stress placed upon their shoulders, and the idea of being unable to simply focus on solving the case chafed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the reappearance of Jack Dawson, whose frustration was apparent from the moment he opened the door. Dawson looked around quickly, finding Hotch and motioning for the BAU chief to join him in the hallway.

Dawson waited until the conference room door was fully closed before he spoke, glancing around quickly to make sure they were alone.

"We've got issues."

Hotch bit back the retort that they'd had issues since the start.

With a sigh and a frustrated rub of his hand through his hair, Dawson continued, "There's no way we'll get an extradition warrant in time. In fact, I was basically told that we should just grab Morrow without the paperwork and try to smooth it over afterwards."

"And are you prepared to do that?" Hotch's dark eyes drilled into the man's face, scrutinizing every micro-expression.

Dawson stared back, unfazed and unafraid. "I'll fly over there myself, if I have to."

Hotch gave a curt nod of approval and agreement. "I may have a less drastic solution."

* * *

 _ **Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.**_

Alex Blake gave a helpless shake of her head as she stared down at her tablet, which currently displayed a photo of Maura Morrow. "I'm sorry. I still just don't see how it could be her."

She'd spent the entire morning in Garcia's apartment with Rossi, Prentiss, and Callahan, going over all the ins and outs of the Amerithrax Case. Morgan had returned after dropping off Garcia at the Academy, and the process had continued. It was redundant at times and seemed entirely futile, but they had nothing else to go on, and they needed something to keep themselves from feeling completely helpless and inadequate.

Prentiss was by no means Garcia at the keyboard, but she knew enough to get what she needed. She'd accessed the old Amerithrax files, and they'd gone over the list of agents who'd been assigned to the case, attempting to jog Alex's memory. She looked over at the list, which was displayed on Prentiss' tablet, but honestly, she could've recited their names by heart now. "It would be a total shock if _any_ of them were involved in something like this, much less Maura."

"You were pretty shocked to learn that Curtis could possibly be the Replicator, too," Rossi pointed out. The gentleness of his tone softened the bite of his words.

Thankfully, Alex Blake's ego was well-balanced—she merely shrugged one shoulder and made a face that implied he had a valid point. She scanned the list of names again. "Gilman and Birdwell both ended up in Seattle, I don't think they'd have any complaints with how their careers ended up—at least not later on."

"Curtis ended up with the Department of Justice," Rossi reminded her quietly. "It isn't about where they ended up—it's about what they lost along the way."

"Well, we all lost face, at least publicly," Alex admitted. "But I don't think anyone was as devoted or antisocial as Curtis."

With a sigh, she returned her attention to Maura's photo. "It just doesn't make sense. There's no…reasoning behind it all, no motivation."

"There's always a motive," Morgan leaned back in his chair, slipping his hands behind his head as he tried to stretch out the muscles along his spine. Despite his attempts to keep some kind of normalcy to his life, he hadn't kept up his usual workout regimen, and he wasn't walking the streets for hours on end or pacing around his office, like he would generally do on a case—his body had begun to protest the hours of sitting without any kind of movement. Prentiss had already teasingly pointed out that was what happened when you got old, and Rossi had been more than a little offended that Prentiss saw Morgan as old ( _what does that make me, gattina, impossibly ancient?_ ).

"Which means we're missing something," Prentiss announced, still perched in Penelope's computer chair.

"Seems to be a recurring theme on this case," Rossi muttered, quite unhappily.

Prentiss swiveled the chair to face the computer again, but her cellphone buzzed before she could type a single letter. She answered without ceremony, "What's up, Hotch?"

"I need your help."

"Well, that's kinda why I flew 3700 miles," she returned dryly.

Not surprisingly, Hotch was unimpressed with her droll sense of humor. "Dawson says we won't be able to get an extradition warrant for Morrow—we know she's still in London, or at least she will be in London again on Monday morning."

"That's a really quick turnaround," Prentiss was already thinking of the evidence that would have to be found and verified in order to provide enough cause for an extradition warrant. Granted, she'd always been better informed than the average citizen on matters of this nature, but her position at Interpol over the last few years meant that she was keenly aware of just how little they really had, when it came to asking for such a favor from the British authorities. "I mean, if Morrow had been formally charged before she'd fled, it would be a cakewalk. But at this point, the best we could hope for is that the Brits send some agents to interview Morrow—if they could find her."

"Which wouldn't help the situation at all," Hotch surmised, his tone grim with certainty. "Our one advantage is that she doesn't officially know that we're on to her. She thinks she has time. If we tip our hand, she'll vanish."

She hummed in agreement. "So, what do you want to do?"

Because she knew that he had a plan. He always did. It was one of the many traits she admired about the man—his mental agility, his ability to think on his feet and formulate a response to every scenario in the blink of an eye.

"I think it's time we color outside the lines."

She took a full breath before she quietly asked, "Hotch, are you sure?"

There was a slight noise across the room. She glanced up to see Rossi, Blake, Callahan, and Morgan all listening intently—Morgan had shifted forward in his seat, all but leaning completely out of it in curiosity. Something in her tone had alerted them to a change in the game, and the mixture of anxiety and dread in their faces was palpable.

"I wouldn't have called if I wasn't." Hotch's voice brought her back to the present issue.

She ducked her head at the statement—that was true, she knew. Leaning forward to place her elbows on her knees, she lightly propped her forehead in her hand as she admitted, "If we do this, we have to use people who can't be professionally sanctioned for their actions. People who can disappear into the woodwork, if there are repercussions afterwards."

Now Derek Morgan was on his feet, his shoulders as taut as the string of a bow. He didn't like where this was going, Emily could tell, but that wasn't her problem, not at the moment.

"And do you know people like that?" Hotch asked, although his tone implied that he already knew the answer.

"I think we both do," she admitted.

Hotch didn't seem fazed by the statement, so she assumed that he'd made the connection. Quietly, he declared, "Then reach out to them. We need to move quickly."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see it. "I'll call you back when it's done."

"And," Hotch spoke quickly, then stopped, as if he were reining himself in. His voice lowered, as if he feared being overheard, "I wanted to say—it's nice, being on a case with you again."

"It is," she couldn't stop the stupid smile that slipped over her face.

"Talk to you soon." It was a command, and a request.

"Talk to you soon." She repeated, a promise and an agreement.

She ended the call, fully aware of the four profilers less than five yards away, who'd been analyzing her every move.

"I'll explain everything in a few minutes," she promised, rising to her feet. She glanced down at her phone again, scrolling through her contacts to find the right number. "Just…hang on."

She headed for Penelope's bedroom—this call needed to be made in privacy. Before shutting the door, she spared a look over her shoulder. Rossi merely arched a brow in her direction ( _careful, gattina_ ). Alex Blake was a portrait of confused concern. Callahan's face was meticulously blank, but curiosity still screamed from her attentive eyes. Derek Morgan was grinning like a madcap.

She thought about the decision she'd made the night before—and if anything, this moment only solidified it.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite black sheep," Clyde Easter's unenthused monotone crackled in her ear. As usual, he gave no greeting.

"You're the one who told me to take a few days off," she countered easily.

"Yes, and I meant go to a spa, take a walk—not go traipsing across the pond to solve another terrorist attack without so much as a by-your-leave—"

"That's what really bothers you, isn't it? That I didn't wait for your approval." Emily kept her tone easy and light, knowing that Clyde wasn't really looking for a row. Snark was simply how they communicated, most of the time.

"What bothers me is the fact that you run one of the most high-profile branches of Interpol and yet you still answer to the BAU's beck and call like a trained lap-dog," came the droll rebuttal.

"Ah, so you're mad that I'm not _your_ lap-dog."

"Basically, yes. Now, what's this about? I know you didn't call just to check in."

"I need your help, Clyde."

"Oh, god. Emily—"

"Just shut up and listen, OK?"

"You cannot use your standing at Interpol to somehow interfere with a domestic case—"

"I'm not really using Interpol at all." She judiciously decided not to mention that the London branch had already been assisting the BAU in the search for Morrow.

"Then why the hell are we even talking right now?"

"Because I need your help. _Your_ help, not Interpol's."

"What do you want, Emily?" His tone was guarded, but she could tell that he was already weighing options in his mind, trying to find a way to fulfill her request, before she'd even officially made one.

"When's the last time you spoke to Constance Connelly?"

She could hear the exhale of breath, as if Clyde had physically been punched in the stomach.

"Emily, I haven't spoken to her since Nairobi—since she _shot_ you, in case you forgot—"

"No, I definitely remember that part," Emily replied flatly.

"And I let her go—it was more than just a dismissal from Interpol, Emily. I haven't spoken to her, or seen her, or in any way tried to engage—"

"Look, Clyde, I know Connelly's sleeper-agent turn was a very personal matter for you," Emily cringed at how cold she sounded, but she also knew that Clyde would hate compassion or sympathy of any form. Besides, she needed him to remain practical, not emotional—not an easy task, considering how the situation with Connelly had ended.

"Yes, I won't pretend as if it wasn't," he admitted quietly. Constance and Clyde had known each other for decades, and were probably as close to a definition of friends as those two could be, with their personalities—he'd brought her back into Interpol around the time that Emily had become the branch chief, and he'd been completely oblivious to the fact that Constance had been recruited by Israel's Kidon during her time away, building a reputation as an assassin simply known as Agent Azriel. At Interpol, she'd merely been the head of Information Intelligence, but once she'd accompanied Clyde to Nairobi, her cover story had begun to unravel. Clyde had found out the hard way that Constance's ultimate loyalty was to Israel and the Kidon—and not to him. He'd lost more than just an agent, and even more than just a friend—he'd lost a decades-long illusion that he'd held in believing that she trusted him and was worthy of his trust in return. For a man like Clyde Easter, who kept confidences with very few and considered even fewer as friends, it was a particularly hard blow.

"I still need your help," Emily returned gently. "We saw first-hand what Constance is capable of—she has a skill set that we really, really need right now, and she can operate under color of law, which again, is something we need—"

"Why can't you just wait for the Fibbies to get the evidence they need to extradite her?"

"We're on a very tight timetable. Of course we're continually working towards building enough evidence to procure a warrant, but we just don't want to put all our eggs in one basket."

"Wise decision. I hope you learned that from me."

"Of course."

He gave a light huff of amusement, and she knew that he'd caught the patronizing tone in her words. There was a slight shuffling noise, as if he were resettling into his seat, and then, with a dramatic sigh, he announced, "You're lucky that I'm a masochist, Chief Prentiss."

"Most saints usually are," she returned dryly.

"As are most demons," he deflected her compliment with his usual drollness. "Now, do you have any other requests that are sure to wreck my day?"

"I've asked enough for now, I think. I can forward you all the details as soon as I've spoken to Aaron Hotchner again."

"Ah. I see. And how is the strapping Mr. FBI Agent?"

"He's fine." Emily intentionally kept her tone neutral.

"Well, for your sake, I hope he's a sight better than just fine. You deserve a good time."

"Clyde, I physically just threw up a little bit in the back of my mouth. I'm not having the conversation with you."

He laughed, a true and deep laugh from the pit of his stomach. "You know, I wouldn't tease you about it if you didn't make it so much fun."

"Goodbye, Mr. Easter." Even though she tried not to grin, it still crept into her voice—she was amused and he knew it, and that only gave him ammunition. However, she quickly became serious again, "And thank you. Really."

"Of course," was his reply, his tone low and lined with emotion. Clyde Easter was a stereotypical stiff-upper-lip Brit, and she knew that this was a close to a declaration of affection and friendship as she was likely to ever receive. "And Emily? Do be careful."

"I'm not the one who's planning a visit to a trained assassin," she returned dryly. Easter gave another huff at her retort, but she knew that he was smiling.

"You owe me big for this one," he informed her, although they both knew it was an idle threat.

"Just add it to my growing tab," she said, and then she hung up, taking a few beats to simply stare at the phone in her hand.

She needed to call Aaron again, and then go talk to the others. They were moving forward, but it seemed like they were moving uphill and through waist-high sludge. Every step counted, but each movement was a battle.

What was worse was the feeling that she hadn't been able to shake, ever since she'd boarded the plane at Heathrow—their world would never be the same again. Something felt irreparably changed, as if a chasm had opened up between _what is_ and _what will be_ , as if some seismic shift had happened across the continents of all their lives. At this point, they were still in the dark, still unsure of what had changed or how or even why. That was the worst place to be, in Emily's opinion—stuck in flux, incapable of changing course or even controlling the damage, helplessly adrift in chaos and still too blinded to even see what the chaos was, much less find a way to minimize its effects.

She glanced over at her suitcase, tucked neatly away in a corner of Penelope's room. She'd stowed her shopping bag inside, away from curious eyes. She still wasn't sure that she'd made the right decision.

Maybe the changes and shifts in their lives weren't all bad. Maybe good could come of this, after all.

That would have to be her mantra, in the coming days. There had to good in this, somehow, somewhere.

She felt a wry smile twist across her lips at the thought. She was beginning to sound like Penelope Garcia. Which, she had to admit, wasn't a bad thing at all.

* * *

 _ **Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.**_

Jessalyn Keller tasted blood and realized that, not for the first time today, she'd bitten her bottom lip hard enough to break the skin. She wasn't one to bite her fingernails ( _little girls have pretty hands, Jessalyn_ ), or tap her feet or move about anxiously ( _good little girls sit quietly and don't disrupt, Jessalyn_ ), so this was her one and only nervous tic, which she'd abused beyond measure over the past twelve hours.

Waiting through Jude's surgery had been hellacious. It was like being in sensory deprivation—she couldn't see Jude, couldn't hear her, couldn't get any sense of how she was doing or even where she physically was within the hospital. She'd felt helpless in a way that made her bones ache, as if she'd been bound by some invisible burning cords. Her mind had been restless and running, while her body had been listless and drained, becoming its own prison as fear physically paralyzed her.

Waiting for Jude to wake up was even worse. Because at this point, the doctors and nurses had done all that they could. Whatever happened next was the best case scenario, and Jess found herself frightened at the prospect, because until Jude woke up, they wouldn't truly know what that scenario even _was_ , much less how to deal with it.

That was the hardest part, not knowing. Jess kept vigil in an uncomfortable chair at Jude's bedside, bandaged hand clasped over Jude's unmoving one, mind whirling with a hundred different scenarios and trying to find an answer to each one.

She wanted to be ready. She wanted to have an answer for every response that Jude might have—it was her way of taking care of her lover, of proving that she was meant to be here, by Jude's side. She wanted to remain calm and collected and in control, to shelter Jude and take away all sense of fear and stress so that she could concentrate on healing.

There wasn't a single shred of doubt in Jessalyn's mind that, if the tables were turned, this was exactly what Jude would do for her. Her heart swelled with love and anxious concern again as she remembered just how close she was to losing this woman, to losing this love and all the ways that it had shaped her life for the better.

Her mind slipped back to the first time that she introduced Judith Eden to her family. It had been a holiday weekend, Labor Day, and as families in the South are wont to do, there was a huge get-together, a cookout complete with twangy country music and fireworks. Jess and Jude had left Richmond on Saturday morning, making the 200 mile trip in good time. The family event wasn't until Monday, but Jess had wanted her immediate family to meet Jude first, and to get to know her.

Thankfully, Jessalyn had come out to her family as bisexual long before that moment. After a lifetime of being a perfect and darling little Southern daughter, Jessalyn had been wracked with fear of ruining that look of delight in her parents' eyes by telling them the truth. She'd gone through a thousand different scenarios in her mind, each one worse than the last—but her parents had turned out to be surprisingly progressive. Once her relief had worn off, Jess later wondered if it was because they only saw this as a phase, or if perhaps her bisexuality still meant that she could possibly marry a man, have kids, and still fit into the life-view that they understood and inhabited themselves. She also wondered how different their reaction would have been if she'd been gay instead.

The theory had been tested that weekend, since Jude was the first woman that Jessalyn had brought home for familial approval. And her parents had truly lived up to their promises—because they had welcomed Jude with open arms.

Later that evening, Jessalyn had slipped out onto the porch to sit with her father in the two huge wooden rocking chairs that had been a part of the house for almost as long as she could remember. And between the beats of silence, their creaking and rhythmic rocking had created a cadence that was equally familiar—she'd learned to tell her father's moods, based on the speed of his rocking. At that moment, she could tell that he was wading his way through some deep thoughts.

 _She's much older than I expected_ , her father had finally spoken, voice low and soft, almost as if he was speaking to himself.

Jess had hummed in agreement. There wasn't anything to be done about that. Her father had added, carefully and with a voice lined in compassion, _She's going to go before you do, sweetheart._

Jess had to agree with that statement too—but she'd added that while she loved Jude, she wasn't making any plans on life-long commitment just yet.

And then her father's expression had turned from contemplative to outright amused. With a crooked grin, he had drawled, _You forget that I've known you your whole life, baby girl. You wouldn't have brought her here if it wasn't serious. And I've seen the way you two look at each other. This one's for the long haul, whether you realize it yet or not._

As usual, he had been right.

Over the years, she hadn't forgotten the conversation, but it had taken on a new meaning. Originally, it had been the very first time that someone had predicted how this relationship would last.

But now, it was a prediction of how it would end.

 _She's going to go before you do, sweetheart._

Jess knew this to be true, with every fiber of her love-soaked heart. She also knew herself to be absolutely helpless against changing this truth.

 _She's going to go before you do—yeah, but not today and not without a goddamn fight._

Jess thought of her confession to Dawson, earlier this morning—she'd meant it then and she meant it even more now. Yes, she was going to lose Judith Eden one day. But when she did, she'd be so surrounded by sweet memories and years of commitment and love that it would be a comfort during the loss. She'd make it count, and she'd stop hiding behind the excuses and walls that they'd built.

She leaned forward to gingerly kiss the top of Jude's hand, making a silent promise to them both. A slight stirring sound caught her attention—she looked up to see Jude's head shift, her once-blank face contorting back into life as she slowly slipped into the waking world.

Jess sprang to her feet, hitting the nurse call button behind Jude's bed and informing the nurses' station that the patient was waking up. She turned back to Jude, quietly watching and waiting.

Jude gave a low groan, the sound raspy and dry. Jess heard the quick and steady patter of rubber-soled shoes on waxed tile floor and knew that the nurse was here, although she never looked up from her partner's face. The nurse appeared in her periphery, and Jess knew that the woman had given an instinctive yet cordial smile in her direction before checking Jude's vital signs on the monitor.

It was probably a full minute before Jude opened her eyes, but to Jess, it felt like an eternity.

When she did, the nurse spoke, "Agent Eden, you're in the hospital. Do you remember how you got here?"

Jude didn't answer. Her big brown eyes were locked on Jessalyn's face, and the relief in their depths was clear as day.

"You," she whispered, giving a small smile.

"You," Jess repeated back, with a smile of her own.

"Is everyone—" Jude grimaced, as if the words were physically hurting her vocal chords, but she fought on. "Everyone OK?"

Jessalyn's heart melted all over again—because of course Judith Eden, upon waking up in a hospital bed and wracked with pain, would first ask about everyone else, rather than herself.

"We're all OK. It's all OK." Jess leaned forward to reassure her. She instinctively kept her bandaged hands down, out of Jude's line of sight, although she wanted nothing more than to brush the hair from Jude's face, to physically feel her and know that she was really, truly here and well.

Jude was relieved. She turned her attention to the nurse, her throat clicking with dryness again, "I remember. What's—what happened to me?"

The nurse seemed to understand that Jude meant what had happened since she arrived at the hospital. She moved efficiently, moving to the corner of the room where the standard plastic pitcher and cup waited, pouring a glass of water and adding a straw as she answered, "The explosion did some damage—there was some shrapnel in your lower back, but the surgeon was able to extract it. You were in surgery for several hours this morning, you're going to be woozy and probably have some headaches. Just let me know how you're feeling, and we'll adjust your meds to help."

She helped Jude sip the water, offering another sunny smile as she continued, "I'm going to let the doctor know that you're awake. He'll come and explain everything in further detail and answer any questions you might have. But for now, you need to rest."

Jude gave a small nod, shifting against the pillow again. With a wry grin, Jess decided that her lover must still be extremely drugged, to accept the command so easily.

With one last round of smiles, the nurse breezed out of the room again. Jude looked over at Jess. The younger woman simply sat down in her chair again, keeping her hands below the bed and out of sight.

There weren't any words that could convey the emotions of the past few hours, for either of them. So Jude simply lifted her hand to affectionately cup Jessalyn's cheek, and Jess leaned into the touch. Then she quietly laid her head to rest on the side of Jude's thigh. Jude's hand traveled upwards, gently brushing Jessalyn's hair back into place, continuing the rhythmic motion at a comforting lulling pace.

And when the doctor finally arrived, that was how he found them—both asleep, Jessalyn's head still resting on her leg, and Jude's hand still resting on her cheek.

* * *

" _How is this our life,_

 _all this magic and splendor,_

 _all this quiet joy?_ _"_

 _~Tyler Knott Gregson, Daily Haiku on Love._

* * *

 ** _*Author's Note: Although she'll probably only show up just this once, I wanted to share my mental casting for Ramira Bustamente: the brilliantly talented Selenis Levya.*_**


	36. One Day This Pain Will Be Useful to You

**One Day This Pain Will Be Useful to You**

" _You know the problem with history—_ _  
_ _it keeps coming back like weeds."_

 _~Marina and the Diamonds._

* * *

 ** _*Author's Note: As previously mentioned, Clyde and Constance's backstory and relationship is further explored in "Out of Africa". First section contains some mild references to the other story, but you should be able to follow along, even if you haven't read it.*_**

* * *

 _ **Interpol Branch Office. London, England.**_

There wasn't anything left for Clyde Easter to do, except to go back to his rental flat and prepare for his flight the next morning. He'd made the travel arrangements, placed the necessary calls to make sure everything was handled in his absence, and took a few days' worth of personal leave. He'd tidied up the small office that was his whenever he visited the London branch, and had wished the rest of the staff a pleasant evening—there were only a few stragglers left, working on reports or gathering their things to head home as well.

It all seemed so perfectly mundane. His head and his heart thudded with building anxiety.

Was he ready to see Constance again? No, he was certain of that. Would he ever be ready? To be honest, probably not.

To look into her face would be to look into his greatest failing as an agent—he'd been fooled, he'd allowed his personal affections to override his ability to analyze behavior, and he'd even let that same affection keep him from pursuing the necessary disciplinary actions.

He should have arrested Constance Connelly. He should have charged her with treason, with shooting an Interpol agent, with lying to government authorities. But he hadn't. He'd simply told her to hand in her resignation and had swept the rest under the rug.

Because he couldn't do it. For all his anger, for all his years of devoting his life to Queen and country and the ideals of his own morality, he had been impotent in the face of that woman, that woman who until then had been his closest friend, or the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend, anyways.

She'd made him a traitor, too—a traitor to the man that he'd believed himself to be, a traitor to the very laws and ideals to which he'd sworn loyalty for almost four decades, a hypocrite and a liar and a joke.

And he still couldn't be angry at her. That was the worst part. Even now, all he could feel was heartache with a heavy dose of disbelief.

He was pathetic. It wasn't a pleasant realization.

Clyde was frowning at his inner thoughts as he exited the elevator at the first floor, moving quickly across the lobby and instinctively tightening his scarf around his neck as he braced himself for the blast of cold night air that awaited on the other side of the glass and chrome doors.

Once outside, he performed another instinctive habit—scanning the perimeter while simultaneously looking for the sleek black sedan that would chauffeur him back to his flat.

The door opened behind him, and he glanced back—again out of habit rather than curiosity. However, he went for a second glance, because the sight was a welcome one.

Brighid Adair, also clocking out for the night. Her makeup was six shades darker and her earlobes danced with shimmering, jangling earrings. Her hair was in the same style that she'd worn when they'd first met, but it wasn't nearly as neat—the night wind whipped loose strands around her head, her curls lifting in the breeze and giving a momentary homage to the infamous Medusa. She wore a sleek poppy red trenchcoat that dared anyone not to notice her, and a slinky, dark colored skirt flounced from underneath its edges, playful and teasing. Her heels were even higher than the ones she'd worn the other day, if that was even possible—their style and coloring didn't exactly scream office wear, either.

Interesting. So Brighid Adair had after-hours plans.

"Well, well, well," her tone was as coy as her smile, and for some reason, she looked ridiculously pleased with herself, as if she'd somehow achieved a great feat by walking out of the building at the same time as he had. "Mr. Easter, still gracing the hallowed halls of London with your joyous presence."

Jesus, if the woman could be any more sarcastic, they'd probably both die of an overdose.

"Well, someone has to raise the caliber of the building's atmosphere," he returned easily, making a deliberate critical glance at her hemline again.

She laughed, true amusement with a dash of show—she tilted her head back and her earrings flashed in the streetlamp's light, although they didn't compare to the twinkling of her eyes. She looked good, and she knew it. She relished it, and she didn't give a damn about who knew that, either.

Again, Clyde felt that he should have been annoyed at this, but found himself incapable. She wore her smugness so well, with an air that made him feel as if she was sharing an inside joke with him, and it was hard to resent, much less resist. Besides, she was smiling, and he couldn't think of a reason to make her stop—not when it did such wonderful things to her eyes.

She held out her arms, as if offering her ensemble for inspection, "I was thinking of having my whole department switch to semi-formal wear. Jazz things up a bit."

"Do you also intend to add neon lighting and serve cocktails?" He arched a droll eyebrow.

"Only after 3pm," she assured him with a conspiratorial smirk. "We do have to maintain a certain level of productivity, after all."

He gave a short, single laugh at the rebuttal. Heaven help him, he liked her.

Brighid's smile melted into something more serious, her brows quirking downward in concern, "Have you—I meant to come by, I suppose—to ask if you had heard from Emily. I know she landed safely, but we haven't spoken since then, and I thought, if anyone had spoken to her, it was probably you."

She was rambling a bit, obviously flustered by her own sudden burst of genuine emotion and perhaps keenly aware of how vulnerable her actions made her seem.

"I spoke to her today, actually," he kept his own tone brusque and upbeat—he got the distinct feeling that Ms. Adair would prefer for him to ignore her lapse in flippancy. "Emily is on the case, saving the day—you know, her usual bit—so she's right as rain."

Brighid grinned at this, silently agreeing with him. Clyde had the sudden urge to tell her everything—to tell her about Emily's request, about what it really meant, to him, about how it could jeopardize so much for so many people. He couldn't, and truly, he wouldn't, but the impulse still shocked him, because it wasn't one he felt very often, and because he couldn't have imagined that it would be inspired by the woman standing in front of him.

 _Clyde, old boy, you really are slipping._

It was, if nothing else, a clear indication of just how isolated his life had become—here he was, wanting to divulge private thoughts and details to a practical stranger, because he didn't have anyone else to talk to.

"Well, that's good," Brighid gave a slight nod and a wobbly smile, as if she were still embarrassed about asking in the first place. Her eyes flicked to something over his shoulder, and Clyde knew that his car had arrived. A glance backwards confirmed his suspicions, and he felt a new impulse, one which he didn't ignore.

"Need a lift?" He tilted his head towards the black car, which had just pulled up to the curb.

Now Miss Adair's smile became knowingly coy. She held up her left hand, opening the gloved palm to show a set of keys. "I can drive myself just fine, good sir."

Her tone implied that she wasn't talking about cars. Her widening grin implied that she knew he'd gotten the double-meaning in her words.

Clyde easily fought back a smile and played ignorant. "Well, I hope you have a pleasant evening, Miss Adair."

"Oh, I certainly will." She brushed past, her voice as silky and teasing as the swish of her skirt. Without so much as backward glance, she tossed a light, flitting-fingered wave over her shoulder as she sing-songed, "Until we meet again, Mr. Easter."

He took a few seconds to simply watch her walk away, heading towards the car park. She only teased him because she'd sensed that he wasn't the type to enjoy the banter, because she thought it ruffled his feathers and at least slightly annoyed him; he knew this. And he knew that if it had come from somebody else, he probably _would_ find the innuendos and knowing tones irritating—he often found that people who felt the need to manufacture sexual tension only did so because they were so boring that it was the only way to hold their target's attention. He preferred being around people who could do their job in a forthright and efficient manner, no smoke-and-mirrors, no unnecessary theatrics. He also realized that when he thought of people, he only thought of them in the context of a working environment.

How long had he been this way? When did he make himself an island?

He hadn't always been like this, he knew that much. But over time, his circle of confidences had shrunk—either they died or retired or went to different agencies, crossing lines that didn't allow for the same openness that had existed before. It hadn't been a conscious effort to hem himself into the friendship of a faithful few, but it had happened, just the same.

He wasn't sure if he could change that. He wasn't sure if he even _wanted_ to change that. And he wasn't sure which was sadder.

He slid into the backseat of the sedan, slamming the door and effectively ending that particular line of thought. He was tired, that was all—more than tired, _exhausted_. It had been a long day after a very long week, and it was beginning to wear on him. He felt detached and afloat and desperate to find an anchor. It had happened before, it would undoubtedly happen again. And just as before, he'd weather the storm as best he knew how—by ducking his head down and getting the job done.

Emily needed him. Emily, one of the few he still trusted, and one of the only people he had in his life who could be considered a friend, a _close_ friend, a friend who knew more about him than most ever would. Emily, a damn fine agent and a solid human being. Emily, who'd put her life in his hands more times than either could recount. Emily, the woman who always seemed to be one strong gust away from blowing off to another world and another place.

He would do this for Emily. It was no secret that he and the members of the BAU lost no love between them. But he would help because Emily asked, and because, deep down, he hoped his accommodating ways would be enough to keep her here, at Interpol, with him. He needed someone he could trust, and she'd proven herself, countless times over many years. And to be perfectly honest, it was nice walking into a building knowing that at least one person in there didn't hate him. It made it a little easier.

Something told him that life wasn't meant to be easy. Not for him. Most of the time, he was alright with that. But not tonight. Fatigue and emotion created a visceral cocktail and he found himself too far gone to push it all back into its box.

Not for the first time, he thanked his mother for her rampant alcoholism, and how it had turned her son into a teetotaler. If he'd been a drinker, he'd already be on his way to a nice, head-ringing bender.

But that wasn't who Clyde Easter was. So instead, he let the car take him to his flat, where he spent the rest of the night pacing, and waiting, and worrying.

* * *

 _ **FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.**_

"Welp, that's that." Sura Roza's unemotive voice broke the silence. Her only flourish was the simple, single click of her mouse as she closed out of a search program. Without glancing over at Penelope Garcia, she announced, "There is absolutely no connection between Maura Morrow and any member of the BAU. Or between the BAU and Benjamin Fuller."

"Tell me something I don't already know," Garcia returned easily, keeping her attention on her own computer screen. Roza gave a small hum that implied she agreed with the blonde's snark.

"What about you?" Roza swiveled her chair to face Garcia's desk. "Anything?"

After helping locate Maura's future whereabouts thanks to bank records, Garcia had been tasked with digging further into her personal life—a task that wasn't as nearly as easy as it should have been. Like Benjamin Fuller, Morrow seemed to halt her online life several years earlier. She'd still kept credit cards and paid certain accounts online, but aside from that, there was little virtual proof of her existence. No Twitter or Facebook account, nothing that would normally be used by an author publishing in today's world. Her publisher's website had a page dedicated to her, with a brief bio and links to her works, but nothing that gave any insight into her personal life.

"Yes and no," Penelope frowned, still not glancing back at her colleague. "She's not on social media, which isn't odd, per se, but it does make things harder. Right now, I'm going through old public records. From what I can see, Morrow enjoys dual citizenship in the US and the UK—it looks like she's been primarily based in the States since 1998...when she married Sean Morrow."

"A husband?" Roza rolled her chair closer, curiosity fully piqued. "That's a new development."

"Yeah," Garcia nodded absentmindedly, her big brown eyes scrolling across the screen as she continued accessing court documents, scanning each one for new bits of information. "Looks like she has a son, born in 2001, Emmet."

"So, where are they?" Roza asked, her voice beginning to weight itself with dread.

"Divorced, maybe? Maybe he has custody of the kid?"

Roza shook her head. "I have four kids—and even if I were divorced, even if my husband were given full custody, I'd never do something like this, something that could keep me away from them _forever_."

She had a point, Garcia decided. This kind of daredevil antics and violence didn't sit well with the general stereotype of motherly love and sacrifice. But maybe Maura Morrow wasn't that kind of mother.

Or maybe she was a mother free from those worries.

"Oh," was all Penelope could say. It was enough—her tone and her physical reaction were enough to bring Sura Roza fully to her desk, chair lightly bumping against Garcia's as she pulled herself up to the computer screen.

"Oh God," Roza was equally dumbstruck.

Penelope's latest discovery still shone blindingly from the screen—two windows, almost identical, both containing death certificates. One for Sean Morrow and one for Emmet Morrow.

"We need to tell the boys," Roza stated the obvious, just before propelling her chair back towards her own desk. Garcia nodded in agreement, although Roza couldn't see it—she was too busy dialing Jack Dawson's number.

Garcia continued her search, this time looking for newspaper articles containing Sean and Emmet's deaths. The death certificate stated cause of death as accidental, but the actual physical cause of death was listed as undetermined—which meant that whatever accident occurred, the bodies were left in such mangled shape that the coroner couldn't determine which injury was the killing blow, or which was sustained first.

She took a long, deep breath before continuing. Whatever came next, it would not be pleasant. In fact, it would be exactly what she hated about this job.

A local newspaper archived on a website wasn't hard to find—grainy photos showed a good-looking man and a smiling boy, underscored by the headline: _Father and Son Killed in Home Accident_. The details were sparse. Apparently Sean and Emmett had been in the garage when the hot water heater had exploded—a tragic, every-day kind of accident that could happen to anyone. Penelope was grateful that there weren't any photos of the accident in the article. Unlike similar articles of this nature, it didn't end with listing the funeral home, or any funeral arrangements, except for the line: _a private ceremony is planned for later this week._

That was a bit odd. Details like that weren't usually omitted unless the deceased was a celebrity or some other figure of public knowledge, whether good or bad.

Penelope searched for the incident report from the Philadelphia police files—and came up empty-handed. Odd, but not impossible. It had been ten years ago. Things like that got lost, or never uploaded onto the digital system. Then she looked for the autopsy reports, which would have been filled out and filed alongside the death certificates. Again, she was met with nothingness.

The feeling of not-rightness intensified. _Bad juju abounds_ , as Emily Prentiss was fond of saying.

Maura Morrow had worked with the FBI. She, in turn, had targeted the FBI years later. Perhaps it was time to see what the _Federales_ had on file.

Penelope returned to the Bureau's private database. A search of Maura Morrow turned up very little—her information and identification packet from her time on the Amerithrax case over a decade ago, nothing more. Garcia tried again and, on a whim mixed with intuition, typed in _Sean Morrow + Emmet Morrow_.

The database returned with a single line: _No records available_.

Once was happenstance, twice was coincidence, three times was a pattern. Wasn't that how the saying went?

"What's up?" Roza must have heard Garcia's small noises of frustration.

"I'm not sure," the blonde admitted, chewing her bottom lip pensively. "Aside from death records, I have nothing else on Morrow's family. No autopsies, not even a police report on the accident."

"That's weird," Roza was rolling her chair over to Penelope's desk again, tilting her head slightly as she read the database's query return aloud, "No records available. Huh."

That wasn't right. Something was off, Penelope could sense it. And Roza could, too—her frown implied that she was trying to figure out just what it was.

"And you didn't find anything anywhere else?" Sura asked, although her tone informed Penelope that she already knew the answer.

 _Find_. That was it. Penelope sat up suddenly, startling her colleague with her sudden movements.

"The query return—read it again," Penelope pointed to the screen, rather unnecessarily.

"Right. Got it." Sura nodded, although she didn't recite it aloud.

Penelope's fingers flew across the keyboard, creating a new search, "Give me the name of someone you know—someone who hasn't been involved in a Bureau case, in any way."

"Uh…OK." The request threw Roza off-guard and it took a moment for her brain to respond. "Burt Woodruff."

Penelope searched for the name. This time, the query return read: _No records found_.

"That's what was off," Roza suddenly understood. "The Morrow search said no records _available_."

"Right," Penelope's eyes were dancing with adrenaline now. "The database is telling us, without actually telling us. There are records—"

"They just aren't available to us." Sura sat back slightly, her mind spinning. "Which means they're classified."

Penelope gave a triumphant nod.

"Christ," Sura breathed. "What do you think happened?"

The blonde's triumph faded to something much more somber. "I don't know. But whatever it was, it can't have been good."

The door opened, and Dawson and Hotch appeared.

"Tell me it's good news," Dawson spoke to Roza.

His technical analyst's face implied that she wasn't certain about the _good_ part. "Well, we might have found something to contribute to Dr. Morrow's motivation—but you're gonna need to sweet-talk the higher-ups into letting us look at the files."

Dawson gave a groan of disbelief at the thought.

"What have you got that isn't classified?" Hotch spoke up.

It took a matter of seconds for Roza and Garcia to relay what they'd learned so far—ending with the deaths of Maura's family.

Dawson and Hotchner exchanged glances at the news.

"Her husband and son die in suspicious circumstances that could somehow tie back to the Bureau," Dawson surmised. "Beginning to sound like a pretty damn good reason to blow the place up, don't you think?"

"There's something else," Sura piped up, her face ashen as her eyes stayed locked on the screen. "The day of the bombing would have been the tenth anniversary of their deaths."

* * *

 _ **February 2005. The Morrow House. Suburbs outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.**_

The alarm clock went off much too early. There simply wasn't any other explanation—because there was no way that Maura Morrow had gotten more than a few minutes' worth of sleep, despite rolling into bed eight hours ago.

Her husband seemed to share her sentiments, because he gave a muffled groan as he shifted in the bed, moving closer to the edge so that he could silence the electronic beeping.

"What day is it?" Maura squeezed her eyes shut, truly wracking her brain to remember. What had she done yesterday, what day had it been?

"It's Tuesday." Sean murmured in return, his reply half-interrupted by a yawn.

Maura groaned. "Only Tuesday?"

There was another sound from her husband, which sounded like a form of commiseration. He rolled back over to her, pulling her closer and burying his chin in the crook of her neck. He was so still and so quiet that for a moment, she thought he'd gone back to sleep.

Then they heard it. The crash from the bedroom down the hall.

"Welp, looks like the mancub's awake," Sean said drolly. Emmet's newest fascination was _The Jungle Book_ , and he'd taken to climbing all over furniture and hooting like a monkey, and his preferred mode of ambulation was on his hands and knees ( _like Bagheera,_ he would say). While Maura was just as much of a Rudyard Kipling fan as the next, she wished her son could refrain from treating the house as his personal jungle.

Maura gave another low groan as she began to roll out of bed, but Sean's arm slipped around her waist and stopped her. "I've got it."

He was out of bed, scrubbing a hand through his thick, dark hair—Maura knew that Emmet's hair looked exactly like his father's in this moment, tousled and plagued with cowlicks. The only thing her four-year-old son had inherited from her was a pair of ice-blue eyes, so light that they were practically crystalline. The freckles, the goofy smile, the hair, the nose, and even the little gap between his two front teeth—those were all from Sean, irrefutable proof that the boy currently demolishing their house at 6am on a Tuesday morning was his son.

Not that Sean would have ever worried about such a thing, anyways. Maura was physically affectionate, but sex had never appealed to her, so the idea of her engaging in an extramarital affair that resulted in pregnancy wasn't something that generally came to mind. Sean knew this, and despite being much more appreciative of intercourse than his wife was, he never complained. It was a sign that he loved her, truly loved her, but Maura sometimes wondered if he ever went elsewhere, during the long spaces in-between their couplings. She hoped that he did—in fact, in the beginning, she'd told him as much, because she hadn't wanted to feel pressured, and she didn't want him to feel resentful.

 _So long as you use protection, and so long as it doesn't mean anything_. Those had been her two stipulations. He'd merely shaken his head, as if he couldn't even imagine going outside of their marriage for sex, but he'd never sworn that it wouldn't happen. Perhaps even then, he'd known he couldn't promise such a thing.

She was fairly certain that it had happened, while she was away in New York, working on the Amerithrax case. She'd been gone for weeks at a time, and when she was home, she'd wanted to spend every moment with their son. She'd been too tired to notice anything else, but in retrospect, there had been a few days when Sean had acted skittish around her. Probably trying to readjust to life with her, after having his fling. She'd never resented him and had never been hurt by it—and more importantly, she'd never asked.

Part of her wondered if she was broken, damaged, otherwise unhuman—weren't wives supposed to feel shattered whenever they suspected their husbands of having affairs? But then again, weren't wives supposed to _not_ tell their husbands to look elsewhere for sex?

No, not broken, she decided. Just different. Evolved, even. She'd been spared from ever believing the lie that love and sex could not be separated—and her life was easier for it, she was certain. As long as Sean could see that, too, they would be fine.

And they were fine, weren't they? They had standing date nights, they spent Sunday mornings snuggling together in the glorious silence before spending the rest of the day at the park or the zoo or the museum with their bright and beautiful son, they shopped for groceries and made plans for holidays and read their books side-by-side in bed—wasn't that what every person wished for, companionship and calm comfortableness with their mate?

Her husband and son bumbled their way down the stairs, and though she couldn't quite make out the words, she could tell that Emmet was telling Sean a story of sorts—animatedly, as he did everything in life. Sean's low tone interjected every now and then, and the pacing indicated that whatever their conversation was, it was almost scripted. Rhythmic and comfortable and familiar, like every aspect of their life.

She smiled to herself and drifted back into hazy half-sleep, a lazy indulgence that was supposed to help her face the day but really only made it harder to do so.

The next time she awoke, Sean and Emmet were back upstairs—she could hear the usual commotion that accompanied tooth-brushing, hair combing, and face-washing. With another heavy sigh, she gingerly rolled out of bed and found her warm fuzzy robe, grimacing at how her muscles ached despite the long night of sleep. That was how it was, these days—she went to bed tired and woke up even more exhausted.

It made sense, really. Emotional and psychological stress almost always took a physical toll. It had been a month since Agent Dorset had decided to abandon them and halt their Bureau security detail, despite Maura's best efforts. She'd made phone calls, sent emails, even attempted to go to the local branch office in-person. She'd been met with a wall of bureaucratic drivel—placations and empty phrases about how it was Dorset's decision, and he'd made it with "full knowledge of the ramifications". They assured her that every protocol had been observed, and that Dorset had been fully certain of her safety before ending the detail.

Obviously, these people didn't know Kaleb Dorset very well. The man was practically a Neanderthal—his brain was always in fight-or-flight mode, and he always chose fight. The idea of him ever having the ability or the patience to truly consider the full ramifications of anything was laughable.

She might have expressed that sentiment. More than once. In retrospect, that probably hadn't helped her efforts to win them over.

By the time she'd padded downstairs and helped herself to a cup of coffee, Sean and Emmet had gotten dressed and were back downstairs as well, gathering the last of their things for Emmet's trek to pre-school.

"Do you mind taking my car instead?" Maura asked, interrupting her own question to return the affectionate kiss that her husband had placed on her cheek as he passed by. "It needs an oil change—you can stop by the garage on the way back."

Sean rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling—Maura and the local mechanic weren't exactly on the best terms, so she avoided seeing him when at all possible. Like now, when she shirked her car maintenance duties and sent her husband instead.

"It's a good thing you're cute," he informed her, leaning in again for a proper kiss. She grinned in response, knowing she'd won her prize.

"You are the most wonderful man in the world," she decreed, only half-joking. In her world, it was entirely true.

"I am," he agreed. "But maybe you should also try not fighting with every single person that you meet."

The easy affectionate feeling quickly dissipated. "What?"

"I'm just saying—the mechanic, the FBI, our neighbor down the street—it's becoming a pattern, Maura."

"What are you saying, exactly?" As usual, her accent became clipped and even more precise when her hackles began to rise. _Arched_ , her mother would say, _your tone becomes arched_.

"I'm saying that it's becoming a recurring theme, that's all," Sean never stopped bustling around the kitchen, packing the last of Emmet's lunch and putting the dirty dishes from breakfast into the dishwasher.

"A recurring theme?" She wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or scream. "Stop hedging, Sean, you know I hate it. Tell me outright. What do you mean?"

Now Sean fully faced her, the exasperation evident on his face, "You're confrontational, Maura. You bring out the fight in people—you _goad_ people into arguing with you."

"I have never denied the fact that I am a very direct and brusque person," she countered. "And, yes, sometimes people can't handle that—"

"People shouldn't always have to _handle_ you," he returned, closing the dishwasher with a little more force than necessary. "You could make an effort."

"An effort to do what? To grovel? To smile and nod and agree to things that I don't _actually_ agree with?"

"It's called politeness. Not groveling." He moved past her, setting Emmet's lunch box on the edge of the counter as he grabbed a coat from the rack on the wall.

She wouldn't argue that point with him. Sean was a peacemaker; he bent over backwards to keep the waters calm—his idea of being polite was vastly different from his wife's, and she knew that. Instead, she stuck to things they couldn't quibble about. "I just don't understand why you're taking issue with it _now_. You have always known that this is my personality, from the beginning. I am the same person as I was when we met."

"And that was twelve years ago," he informed her, slipping into his coat. He took a moment to simply look at her, and suddenly she noticed how old and drawn his face had become, how drained, how exhausted he was. "Twelve years, and you haven't changed at all. Isn't that just the slightest bit sad?"

That hit like a knife in the chest. The air left her lungs and no words could begin to capture how she felt in that moment.

As usual, Sean quickly moved to neutral territory, grabbing Emmet's lunch box and the car keys. "I'll take your car into the shop today. But after this, you're on your own. You'll have to find a way to be civil to the guy, without avoiding him."

Sean called for Emmet, who'd been watching cartoons again in the living room. The little boy bounded back into the kitchen, throwing himself against his mother's legs and declaring his love for her with joyful exuberance.

She didn't say she loved him back. She was still in shock, still without words.

It would be the thing that stayed with her, after everything—she didn't tell her son that she loved him, the last chance she had.

Sean merely gave a grim smile—a smile out of habit, one that didn't reach his eyes, and then hurried down the hallway that led to the garage. Maura remained rooted to the spot, right hand still gripping the countertop in a mixture of helpless anger and heartbroken shock.

It wasn't just what Sean had said. It was what he meant by it. She hadn't changed—but he had. He was changing, and maybe the new Sean didn't want to be with the old Maura anymore. Maybe new Sean wanted more, or wanted less, or simply wanted anything than to be here, with her.

 _Isn't that just the slightest bit sad?_ Typical Sean, hedging and trying to soften the blow with his words. He hadn't meant _the slightest bit sad_. He meant _utterly pathetic_. That was perhaps the deepest wound—he thought she was pathetic. A bitter, pathetic, frigid woman. Who could love that? Who could live with that?

Sean was a saint in many ways, but he was still human. And every human, for all their strength and resilience and hope, had their breaking point.

Maura wondered if this was it—if this was how it was going to end, in a quiet conversation on an ordinary Tuesday morning, without huge revelation or shattering of the earth.

Then she heard the explosion. It took several moments for her brain to register the sound, to comprehend its meaning and its source, to send the alert to the rest of her body to run like hell down the hall, wrenching open the door to the garage where her car now sat, blackened and smoking, bits of debris scattered around like a deathly halo.

Everything slowed.

She was running to the car, but not fast enough. There were still flames inside, and the heat only intensified her adrenaline. Sean's car, which had been hit by the debris, was blaring its anti-theft alarm, which matched the wailing in Maura's head.

Maura was screaming. She could hear herself, but she couldn't stop it. She wasn't making coherent sounds, but her mind was pulsing with one word, which screamed in time to the car alarm.

 _Em-met, Em-met, Em-met, Em-met, Em-met..._

She pulled at the warped metal of the car door, her hands searing with painful heat as she wrenched it open with inhuman force fueled by fear and maternal instinct. But it wasn't enough. It wouldn't open far enough, she couldn't reach him, couldn't pull him out of the carseat, out to safety.

Emmet was so still, so quiet. There was blood. There shouldn't be blood. This was wrong. _WRONG_.

She reached into the car, through the shattered window. The glass was jagged and cut into her chest, but she didn't care. The flames pushed outwards again, as if warning her to stay back, but she didn't heed them. Her skin was searing and her nerves jangled alarms of pain in her head, but Emmet was still in the car, how could she leave until he was safe?

Then came the second explosion. Later, she was told that the fire had reached the hot water heater. All she remembered was the sound, the heat, the feeling of being blown back over the trunk of Sean's car, and the sensation of realizing that her arms were empty.

Emmet wasn't with her. He wasn't where he was supposed to be—safe, with her.

Emmet wasn't there. He was too far away and her body wouldn't work, wouldn't get up, get her son. He was lost, he was gone, he was taken. Panic rolled over her body as darkness rolled across her brain.

He wasn't there. He wasn't there...where was he?

 _Em-met, Em-met, Em-met, Em-met…_

* * *

" _Where I'll go or what I'll do…  
It makes no difference what I do without you.  
Oh I love you, my darling…  
So I'll sigh, I'll cry,  
I'll even wanna die  
For the one I love is gone."_

 _~Katie Melua._


End file.
